


Our Corner of the World

by the_seaworthy_muffin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Baker Merlin, Believe me there's Fluff, Businessman Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Drama, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Holidays, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seaworthy_muffin/pseuds/the_seaworthy_muffin
Summary: When a local baker sees Mordred’s bruises and assumes the worst, it’s the horrible cherry on Arthur’s awful pie of a day. Sparks fly, but once they get past the initial misunderstandings, Arthur and Merlin find themselves drawn together in a magnetic attraction. But storm clouds are on the horizon: Merlin struggles to hide his magic in the face of Arthur’s distrust, all the while trying to help Mordred control his budding magic in the shadows. Meanwhile, kidnappings of young magic-users stir up London’s underworld, and when Mordred is kidnapped, Arthur is thrown headfirst into a world he neither knows nor understands. Secrets are revealed, walls come crashing down, and maybe, maybe, they’ll come out stronger in the end.A magical fluffy-angsty drama-coaster of a holiday tale to wrap up the year.*Now Complete!*
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 154
Kudos: 181





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> Something I started because I wanted to see Baker!Merlin and Businessman!Arthur in a modern magical universe, except it sort of gained a life of its own and evolved into a separate entity with something like a plot and lots of fluff and drama.  
> It's my first foray into the realm of multi-chaptered Merlin fic, so please bear with me! I've up to chapter five written on my laptop as of now, so it's daily updates for five days and then maybe a little slower after that. May end up discontinued if no-one wants to see it continued after chapter six or seven, but it is my darling so hopefully nothing like that will happen? Though, really, hope you all enjoy. :O  
> WARNING: mentions of neglectful childhood experiences and references to child abuse. Nothing graphic, but you may want to tread carefully if it's something you may be bothered about!

“Drink, mate,” Gwaine says as soon as he sees Arthur’s face. Arthur tosses his briefcase haphazardly down, sliding into their customary booth at the _Rising Sun_ with a groan. The garish red leather of the seat reflects his face back at him.

“That obvious?”

Gwaine gives him a Look. “The drink I give you now is poured in the name of self-preservation. I’m not keen to see you put in jail for bloody murder. So, bottoms-up- and what the hell happened to you? I’ve not seen you in such a strop since the feather boa incident.”

The Feather Boa incident, which fully deserves all the capital letters in the world, involves Morgana, a hideous pink feather boa, lots of alcohol, and it shall never be spoken of again. Arthur downs the scotch in one go, relishing the pleasant burn all the way down to his gut.

“You will not believe me even if I told you. You would not believe me, and then you would bloody _laugh_ at me.”

Gwaine, true to Arthur’s prediction, laughs. “You know I laugh at pretty much everything; that doesn’t count.”

“It does, you twat.” Arthur rubs at his eyes with the back of a hand. “Well.” He knows that for all his posturing Gwaine is actually a pretty decent friend, and for all the laughing he might receive it will probably help his mood to actually help someone. “You know Mordred got into a fight at day-care today?”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow, whistling to his teeth. “Vicious little fellow, isn’t he? Knew he wouldn’t let his father down. Do continue.”

“He got this giant- bruise, here right by his eye. And a few scratches. I swear I even saw a few bite-marks.”

Arthur remembers the initial shock of seeing his son beaten black and blue like some sick puppeteer’s doll (though, to be honest, the other boy had looked way worse- little villain knows how to give bad as he’s got.) It hadn’t been much, though, compared to the pang that had run through Arthur’s heart when he’d realized just what the fight had been about-

_He said even my mommy didn’t like me enough to stay_ , Mordred had said, tears threatening to pool in those large blue eyes of his. Arthur had cursed Sophia (who’d left without a second glance for some glamorous modelling career off in Italy, who hadn’t bloody _cared_ that she was going to leve a two-year-old son and furious, heartbroken husband behind) a thousand ways to hell and back, had gathered Mordred close to him and whispered _I love you, I love you, I’ll always love you_ , until he’d tugged at Arthur’s sleeve for breath and everything had been alright again.

“Brave young lad, then.” Gwaine’s eyes are warm, a softer side he rarely shows anyone else. “I’m feeling a story in the brewing here.”

“I’d rather it had rather never been brewed in the first place,” Arthur groans. Even the mere thought of the Incident sends sparks of indignant anger arcing through his body, making his heart pound and his fists clench. “It’s clearly something brewed in the bowels of hell.”

Gwaine scrunches his face up in that goofy _I-dare-you_ expression that only Gwaine could ever pull off with any rate of success. “The great Arthur Pendragon swears.”

Arthur lobs a stray napkin at him. “Just because I was raised in a decent household- shut up and _listen_ , would you?”

Gwaine mock-salutes. “Alright, do carry on. Though- I’m actually a little curious now. What, someone slap you in the face at work?”

“No.” A flash of blue eyes, full lips set in a defiant line, floured hands pushing a confused Mordred behind a slender, aproned frame. “Someone figured I was abusing Mordred, and threatened to call the police on me. To my face.”

A myriad of emotions flash through Arthur’s head: hurt, anger, confusion, rage blinding-hot and searing, and hurt, again- always hurt. Always back there, that pang of sadness that comes back whenever he realizes that whatever he’ll do, whatever he’ll say, there will always be someone who judges him for his stern face, is gruff words, his _stiff, upper-class_ bearing. As if. As if-

Arthur is not his father.

_As if._

“Oh, bloody hell,” Gwaine curses.

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_The thing is, Arthur might have actually asked the man out had everything not gone to hell._

_It had been a treat to Mordred, after the tough day he’d had- taking him to that bake-shop he’d been pestering Arthur about for the entirety of past week seemed to be a good idea. It was a cozy place, nestled between old run-down houses decorated with trailing vines of ivy and cracking bricks like something out of an O. Henry story, hung with trails of sparkling fairy-lights and a faded wood sign that read Wizard’s Corner in curling green letters._

_Arthur had been mock-fighting with Mordred, Arthur making grabs for the toddling child as Mordred squealed and jumped around in the snow with joy, Arthur roaring and making all manner of outlandish threats to make the babe laugh._

_It had been a light, promising end to an otherwise horrific day, and the owner of the bakery had been the cherry on top of the cake: Tall and slender, with long, expressive white fingers and pale cheekbones smudged with flour lesser men would have_ killed _for, blue eyes clear and humorous under a shock of dark hair that fell into his eyes and curled along the underside of his ears._

_Until he’d taken a look at Mordred’s admittedly giant bruise, glared at Arthur, and tucked his son- son!- behind his back as if defending him from some oncoming beast. As if Arthur was the beast._

_‘Look, that’s my son,’ Arthur had said._

_‘That isn’t a blanket pass for anything and you know it,’ the owner had snapped right back._

_Arthur knows, better than anyone- that fathers can do things unimaginable to their children, to the very ones they’ve been charged to protect._

_And that’s why it had hurt all the more._

_Of course the he’d be one to judge people by their covers. Of course the first man Arthur had seriously almost fallen for on first sight had to be such a glaring_ jerk _._

_Arthur had stopped hoping some point between Sophia and Vivian anyway._

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Gwaine, upon hearing the tale in its entirety, fills Arthur’s cup yet again. “That was pretty bad on him. I mean, shouting and bruises doth an abusive parent not make.”

Arthur aims a kick at Gwaine’s foot, underneath the table. “Stop butchering literature, you arse.”

“It’s great and you know it.” Gwaine grins salaciously, making Arthur kick at him again. “Ow- ow! That actually hurt- you need to stop working out; heaven knows you’ve got enough muscles on that beefy frame of yours to last a lifetime. No━” a pause. “Did he apologize, though? That gorgeous arse-ish barista of yours.”

Arthur scowls. The audacity of him- “I never said he was gorgeous.”

A wash of desire that disgusts Arthur himself, because he has his pride, and he refuses to fold for someone who’d been shallow enough to take him for a git without hearing him out first. Annoyance, want, anger, frustration, blinding-hot and jumbled up like some cursed spool of yarn in Arthur’s head. Gwaine shrugs. “Implied, though. You don’t get to lie to me after knowing me for ten years. So, apology.”

“Oh, you son of a━” Arthur throws his hands up. “Fine. And yes, he did apologize, profusely, but I have no intention of forgiving him. I probably won’t ever see him ever again, anyways.”

Earnest blue eyes, blown wide with shock, hands gesticulating wildly as the man had stammered out a response- Arthur curses, pushing the image into the darkest recesses of his mind. “Yeah. No way I’ll ever run into him again.”

Gwaine toys with the rim of his pint, humming thoughtfully. There’s a disturbing twinkle flitting across his gaze, and Arthur runs the back of his hand over his tired eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he muses. “Here’s a bloody romance-novel opening if I’ve ever seen one.”


	2. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies on (both) sides, and also bribes in the form of pumpkin muffins. (Who would refuse?) Also- someone might just have scored themselves a date......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little quicker update today, because I may be a bit busier tonight...... (end-of-term papers galore!:O) Fluffy chapter. Very very fluffy. :)  
> Also- many thanks to all who've commented, bookmarked, and kudosed the previous chapter! You all made my day <3<3<3

Arthur should give the baker extra credit on merit of sheer persistence alone. He’s even managed to drill his name into Arthur’s skull through his profuse and repeated apologies, and that’s a feat in and of itself. Arthur seriously considers taking his car to work, and he ought to, really, since he’s a responsible grown-up and shouldn’t be enjoying torturing himself as much as his subconscious obviously _is_ , but somehow he finds himself dragging himself over and over again through the routine of a chilly, long walk home and Merlin’s repeated apologies complete with complementary sweets.

Merlin’s wide blue eyes are a bloody weapon, ringed with dark lashes like a smudge of soot against that pale skin as they are, and it turns out he’s actually _nice_ , if quite a bit impulsive and hot-headed at times. He explains about how he’s seen way too many kids, _you know_ (complete with the signature flailing hands), how he’s sorry he’s just rushed ahead without stopping to think, Arthur must know how he does that sometimes……

About three days out of ten, Arthur wants to punch him on the face. As for the rest, he can’t quite make up his mind between simply pushing Merlin against the nearest wall and kissing him senseless, and punching him in the face and _then_ crushing him close and kissing him senseless.

But Arthur does not bend, because if there is one thing Arthur is it’s stubborn, and proud, and the pang of hurt is still too real for Arthur to stop and make amends with any reasonable degree of success.

“You ought to go make up with him,” Mordred says one night as Arthur loosens his tie and kicks his socks underneath the kitchen table.

“Huh?”

“Merlin,” Mordred clarifies. “He’s moping, and he can look miserable like nobody’s business━”

“Wait.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “I haven’t seen- is he bribing you with _pumpkin muffins_?”

“They’re good,” Mordred protests, hiding the offensive object behind his adorably pudgy back. There are crumbs still dotting his cheeks and chin, though, and he swipes the back of his hand against it, dislodging half a dozen. “Admit it! I’ve seen you eating them too.”

Yes, Arthur has, and yes, they are.

Arthur sighs, suddenly overcome with the urge to pick Mordred up and squeeze his baby cheeks like a teddy bear. A villainous, plotting, bribe-receiving teddy bear that he still somehow can’t bring himself to be angry at.

“Alright,” he sighs. “One time. One time, alright? And you’re going to show me your stash of bribes, because I get rights to half of that by default. You’d never have gotten those if it weren’t for me and you know it, you rascal.”

Mordred giggles at him.

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Arthur goes bearing gifts. (A batch of chocolate-chip cookies from Gaius’ bakery, because Arthur figures even bakers might want to stop baking and enjoy other peoples’ efforts once in a while.) Mordred insists that he do so, because Arthur ‘has probably been pretty mean to Merlin too’, and Arthur can’t in good conscience say that he hasn’t.

Merlin, predictably, is waiting for him when Arthur makes his way back home through the winding narrow alleyway that houses Merlin’s bakery. But his expression when Arthur half-shoves, half-pushes his bag of cookies at him isn’t anything he’d expected.

Merlin’s brows twist upwards, blue eyes widening the slightest fraction, lips hanging open. Arthur pushes down the interminable urge to reach out and brush them gently closed.

“What’s this?”

“I- wanted to say I’m sorry. Sort of.” Arthur bites his lip. He really is horrible at this apologizing thing- heaven knows he’s had few enough occasions to practice. “You’ve been pretty persistent in saying you’re sorry, and I-“

“Was a bit of a prat about it,” Merlin says, almost off-handedly, then snaps his mouth shut. “No, sorry! That was most definitely uncalled for. But- you’re apologizing?”

“You think I’m a prat,” Arthur repeats, feeling the familiar burn of annoyance threatening to spill past his throat. Merlin waves is hands about, mortified.

“ _No_! No, I mean, at first I thought you were, but now I know you’re not, and you’re apologizing……” He peers down at the cookies Arthur’s brought, blinking. The long light of the street-lamps send small orange highlights spinning over Merlin’s high cheekbones, brushing the hollow of his neck with soft shadow. Arthur swallows. “You baked these?”

“No, but I thought- well, you do like chocolate chip cookies?”

“Of course I do,” Merlin grins, soft and shy and not at all like the defiant, fierce-eyed (albeit judgmental) man Arthur had first seen. _Oh, hell. He can’t do this. It’s cheating, is what, lowering Arthur’s defenses so he can be all sharp and cutting and hurtful later and Arthur can’t do anything but watch._ “But thank you, really. Though I’ll probably end up devouring the whole thing sometime between tomorrow and the day after that. And, really, I’m sorry too. I’d been having a bad day. Though that isn’t much of an excuse.”

“It isn’t,” Arthur replies, gruff. “But I was- _prattish_ , I suppose, too, so I guess we’re even now.” He feels strangely light and untethered, now that this whole issue of Merlin is over and done with. He wonders absentmindedly if he’ll start taking his car to work again now, or if he’ll still detour and start to make Merlin’s tiny bakery his new favorite haunt.

_Probably not._ It feels strange, thinking that it might be the last time he might see the quirky confusing baker with the hot temper and profuse apologies, and Arthur lingers for a moment (just a moment) longer, before turning to make his way back home.

A long-fingered hand latches onto his arm. “Wait.”

Arthur turns.

“I know you’ve said you’re sorry, and I’ve said I was, too, and that probably makes us even, but- I mean.” Merlin’s limned in orange-gold from the light of the streetlamps, almost ethereal against the backdrop of stone cottage and purple-black night sky, snow dotted sparse and white like sugar sprinkles upon the slick wet cobblestones of the avenue. “What do you say to topping it all off with some dinner?”

“Dinner?” Arthur asks, dumbfounded. His traitorous heart jumps at the thought- _him, Merlin, dinner, restaurant, brushing fingers and maybe-_ (no. No. not that route of thought; that way lies madness.) _And has he already forgotten how disastrous their first meeting had been?_ “I’ve already eaten with Mordred, but……”

Merlin smiles, a shy grin that stretches a little bit farther to the right and brings out the dimples in his pale cheeks. He stuffs his reddened hands into the pocket of his chocolate-stained apron, and breath escapes his lips in a pale huff that dissipates into the cool winter air. “Not today, of course. But- maybe later. Here.” Merlin fishes around in his pocket for a pen and a piece of paper. He scribbles something furiously onto it and stuffs the piece into Arthur’s hand. “Call me? Later? If you want?”

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Arthur does end up calling Merlin.

He doesn’t tell anyone, because he still isn’t half sure about what exactly he’s thinking, setting up a date with a prat of a near-stranger (who might actually be a lot nicer that Arthur had been willing to give him credit for, but hey, details, details) and also because he has horrible friends and they’re like to tease him relentlessly until the day he dies.

Gwaine, unsurprisingly, manages to find out.

“Good lay?” he says with a knowing smirk, as soon as Arthur arrives at their customary monthly pub get-together. Elena and Leon and Lancelot all wolf-whistle at him, Elyan even throwing in a few teasing whoops, and Arthur groans.

“ _No_. Whatever makes you think I-“

“You hum,” Gwaine points out. “Honest-to-goodness hum, when you work, which is disgusting.”

“And have this dreamy look in your face,” Elena quips in, sliding an arm around Gwaine’s waist. “You look like a Disney princess. Or prince. Or both. Not really important, though.”

“No, I most certainly do not! What the hell- Gwaine, stop giving Elena _ideas_! You’re going to have half the HR team calling me Princess Arthur at this rate- Guys?“

He turns around, scanning his circle of friends (which he would most gladly die for in a split-second, though that’s another secret he’ll take to his grave) for any sign of support.

Or sympathy. He’s not picky that way.

He finds none.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he grouses. “I’m going to fire the lot of you. Just you wait and see.”

“It’s alright, we understand.” Leon smiles sagely. Arthur narrows his eyes at him; Morgana must be rubbing off of him━ bad influence if he’s ever seen one. “Now, chop-chop, bottoms up!”

Arthur downs his beer in one go.

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_Tom’s alright? This Sunday five._

Tom’s, Arthur muses. So long as he manages to make sure Elyan’s not on shift (he’ll probably be on a pub crawl somewhere, Sunday night, quoting owner’s privileges)━ the atmosphere’s nice, comfortable, nothing too high-end, nothing too tasteless either. He most definitely does _not_ imagine how Merlin’s blue eyes might look, set against the rustic red-brick interior of the restaurant, reflecting the yellow candle-themed lamps set around the tables. He doesn’t.

Suit and tie? Too formal? Jeans, maybe, Arthur decides, and a nice blue shirt that’ll bring out his complexion. He bites his lip. Hell, it’s not even a bloody _date_ ……

_Fine with me,_ Arthur types back _. I’ll go reserve a table just in case_.

_Great! See you then_ _J_ Comes the answer right away. Arthur slips his phone into the back pocket of his trousers and buries his face in his hands. Gods, this is probably the worst decision he’s made since the Feather Boa incident. Yes, definitely. Probably.

_Not a date_ , he tells himself, firm.

Arthur most definitely does not spend a longer time in the shower that night.


	3. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Date.

Conversation flows surprisingly easy between them, for all that they’ve only really _talked_ about three or four times since they’ve first met, and Arthur finds himself lulled into the easy rhythm of good food and drink and (yes, he’ll admit) good company. Merlin has a surprisingly dry sense of humor, and it’s a dangerously intoxicating combination when paired with his quicksilver wit and surprisingly kind disposition. They start off by talking about Mordred – Merlin’s face flushes red when Arthur tells Merlin about the fight that had resulted in Mordred’s giant black eye, which Arthur notes with a vicious sense of satisfaction (never say a Pendragon can’t hold a grudge) before quickly quashing it down with no small amount of guilt. Merlin seems too _nice_ to try to be genuinely cruel to.

Then they move on to kids in general, about Merlin’s business associate Freya who’s collected a veritable score of strays, to Gwaine’s drinking habits, to Gaius’ bakery (‘Wait, you know him too?’ ‘Since I was a child.’ ‘Oh my god, Arthur, he’s my uncle!’) to NASA’s space shuttles and the _Silmarillion_ and pretty much everything in between.

The wine Arthur’s drunk fills him with a pleasant warmth from the inside-out, and somewhere along the way Arthur’s rolled up the sleeves to his shirt and Merlin’s discarded scarf has found its way to Arthur’s side of the table. Arthur’s gaze lingers, against his better manners, on the tantalizing pale stretch of neck that’s been freed. Merlin shifts in his seat, dark-blue eyes somehow both shy and coy from underneath the smudge of his lashes, and Arthur’s eyes are drawn to a flash of black ink that shows itself as Merlin’s jumper slips a little from the movement.

Arthur swallows.

“It’s a tattoo,” Merlin says, a knowing smile twitching at the edges of his lips. Arthur jumps, startled like a child caught with his hand in the cookie-jar.

“Huh?” is his intelligent response.

“A tattoo,” Merlin clarifies. He leans towards Arthur, stretching the neck of his jumper the slightest bit so that Arthur can see the whole of it. It’s a circle with three swirling arms reaching out from the center, almost like a growing vine, melding seamlessly into a larger circle that runs around the whole of the pattern. The ink is possibly the darkest Arthur’s ever seen, and when he blinks, he could have sworn it had actually _moved_.

“Oh,” Arthur says, for lack of anything better to say. _Get over yourself; you can be more intelligent than this_. Arthur shakes his head, dissipating some of the alcohol-induced fog that’s been slosing around somewhere in his brain. “Any special-meaning?”

Arthur’s fingers twitch of their own accord, eager to _touch,_ and he only manages to rein the impulse back at the last minute. _Not a date,_ he mutters to himself. _Not a date_. He’s not about to make a total fool of himself, no matter how unexpectedly nice and gorgeous and funny and intelligent and flirty Merlin has turned out to be.

“It’s a _triskele,_ ” Merlin says, his low, husky voice curling deliciously around the strange, foreign word. “A druidic symbol. I was sort of raised on the old ways, and……” Merlin bites his lip, the white of his teeth stark against the dusky red of his lower lip. “I know it sounds weird, but, well, that’s me.”

_The old ways._

_A druidic symbol._

“No, it doesn’t,” Arthur says, almost on automatic, but the words jolt him out of his lazy, content stupor, like a wash of cold water. Bile threatens to rise in his throat.

He knows those words. Far better than he would have liked to.

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_Ygraine had been beautiful, once. Father had told him so, once, over a bottle of wine, red-rimmed eyes uncharacteristically broken, weak, open. Arthur did not believe him, could not- where could he find beauty in the matted golden hair, the stinking rags she calls clothes, the crazed light in those watery-pale eyes?_

_“It will bring Kay back,” she insisted. “It brought you back, Arthur, don’t you remember? The old ways. I told you, you know…… Nimueh, she brought you back, when I’d thought I had lost you for good. See, Arthur, Kay is only sleeping. Only sleeping, and I’ll just have to find a way……”_

Always a way _, she’d mutter, before turning away with his baby brother cradled in her arms. When Arthur thinks of Ygraine, he will always remember the sweet clammy rot of dead flesh, of strange terrifying symbols scratched into the margins of the mansion doors, the screams that would somehow rend the night and the soft, crooning laugh that was even worse._

_The Old Ways had brought Arthur back, she would say, a strange, broken light in her eyes. But it did not bring Kay back, and some days, Arthur thought that was what had broken her for good._

_Broken them all, perhaps, because Arthur and Uther hadn’t quite ever been the same after that._

_“She’s gone,” Uther had said, one day, as Arthur had crossed the threshold into the mansion after school. All the windows in the house was open, and it was strange, the way absence could weigh almost as much as presence- the absence of that haunting, throat-clogging rot was almost a tangible thing, running light and sweet through the spacious corridors and rooms. Uther’s face was shuttered and drawn, and Arthur knew instinctively that it was the face of a man who had committed the unspeakable, who had torn his own heart out with his own hands and been aware of it the entire excruciating way._

_Perhaps for the better, Arthur had thought, numb. Perhaps- but they could not have lived in that cruel limbo for-ever, amidst the scent of rot, the screams, the cries. They could not have._

_Yes; perhaps for the better._

_If he sometimes dreamt of a blond tangle of hair, of a glint of blue eyes, a tender mother’s embrace that could have never been- he did not speak. Because some things were never to be brought up of, again, some ghosts better not stirred. But sometimes, in the days that followed, when his father seemed more a stranger than kin, when the smallest of mistakes would end in bruised arms and legs and missed dinners and yelling, always the yelling_ _━ (discipline; how else would you learn discipline?)_

_Arthur could not help but think: maybe, maybe, maybe._

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“Arthur- Arthur!” Merlin is calling him, clear blue eyes scanning him concernedly. They are nothing like the crazed glint Arthur sometimes remembers, that dreamy, haunted stare that had seemed to look through him instead of at him. “Is something wrong?”

Arthur flinches, almost as if on instinct, as Merlin’s hand reaches for his forehead. Merlin twitches, and Arthur watches a hurt expression flit across his features before he puts his hand on his lap, resigned. Arthur clutches at the faux leather décor of the booth like a lifeline.

“No,” he says, and if it sounds the slightest bit strangled then no one calls him out on it. “No, it’s alright, must have had a bit too much wine…… I’m fine.”

Merlin gives him a look, but is quiet.

“Here, have some more soup,” Merlin says. “Might hearten you up a bit.”

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_Touch. No. Touch. No. Druidic- He said-_ but plenty of people with alternative religions out there, aren’t there? People who are- are new-agers, or Wiccan, or mystics, or whatever. It doesn’t mean that they’ll go insane. That they’ll go about trying to drown their own babies in boiling oil as human sacrifices or anything.

Arthur spends the remnant of their meal together fluctuating wildly between _want_ and a vague, pervasive dread, almost as if at war with himself. The atmosphere is stretched, strained; and though Merlin smiles and makes small talk his grin stretches a little too tight over his face. Arthur wants to reach out and wipe those hurt lines off Merlin’s face, wants to smooth his hand over those tousled curls and say _I’m sorry, How can I make everything alright again, I’m sorry_. Merlin must have caught on to that last bit, because he looks up, meeting Arthur’s gaze head-on, the slightest challenge lurking under a thin veneer of hurt.

He tilts his head. “Anything on my face?”

“No.” Arthur gulps. Then- “Will I have to worry about human sacrifices if I ask you out?”

Merlin blinks. “What?”

_Oh, bloody hell_. Arthur blames the alcohol. And the way the faux candle flames glint off of Merlin’s full lips. Or the maddeningly white stretch of neck that taunts him from underneath the frayed collar of Merlin’s off-white jumper.

“You know, the……” he gestures, vaguely, ducking his head so as not to meet Merlin’s gaze head-on. Merlin makes a choked sound that almost sounds like he’s honest-to-goodness strangling, then laughs.

“Oh my god, Arthur, you thought I was preying on your soft tender virgin’s flesh? Goodness, that is-“ he chokes off into indignant snorts again.

Arthur hasn’t, but because some secrets aren’t meant to be told- _some ghosts not meant to be stirred_ , he just shrugs and adds, in a calculatedly outrageous tone: “You never know. I’ve watched _Appocalypso_ , you know. Beating hearts in the mist……”

Merlin lets out a startled laugh at that, and when his eyes meet Arthur’s they’re wide and open and almost so beautiful it _hurts_ , and _oh fuck Arthur is so far gone there’s no way he can salvage himself anymore_.

“You’re doing this on purpose, you prat,” he says, and Arthur simply shrugs. There’s still a giant clump on the bottom of his heart that warns Arthur that he _knows_ what happens to people who tangle with the supposed Old Ways, that he can’t afford to leave the way to his heart so unguarded, that he ought to turn around, run, cut the ties off before they can grow, because it’s what Arthur does best. But Arthur stuffs it resolutely into a corner- heaven knows there’s already enough people in the family whose lives are eaten whole by the past. He won’t run away. He won’t.

So he sweeps all that underneath a rug in his mind where he can go back and mope over later, and smiles back at Merlin.

“The answer is yes,” Merlin says, and there’s something tender and budding and achingly affectionate in the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Yes?” Arthur asks, thrown.

“ _If I ask you out,_ you said. The answer is yes.” Merlin grins. “Next time’s a real date, yeah? And you know the gentleman always buys……”

“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m not your money-bag!”


	4. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin comes to an epiphany. It's not terribly good.   
> Also featuring a small dose of fluff and Kilgharrah the cat, with Freya making a short appearance.

Merlin has a date.

An actual, honest-to-goodness date. Well, Arthur could certainly have been a bit smoother going about it ( _human sacrifices if I ask you out,_ indeed!)- but Arthur does happen to be the most attractive bloke Merlin has seen in _years_ , if not his whole life, and has a thinly-veiled self-deprecating sense of humor to boot. Merlin is not about to say no.

Merlin’s general good mood means that his magic tries to open his door for him, rushing tingling and eager to his fingertips, and Merlin _pssts_ , crushing it down. “Down, there, good girl,” he mutters, like placating a particularly difficult cat. “Can’t have anyone seeing, you know.”

His magic almost does seem to have a mind of its own, sometimes, as is illustrated when all the lights come on with a cheerful _whoosh_ as soon as Merlin’s door closes behind him. Kilgharrah the cat pads out from Merlin’s bedroom, shreds of something that looks suspiciously alike to Merlin’s favorite shirt hanging off his claws. Merlin sighs.

“No satiating your unfortunate urge for destruction, is there?”

Kilgharrah meows and tilts his head. Merlin takes it as a _no_.

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Merlin spends the next few weeks in a state of alternating bliss and dread. Arthur does begin texting him with regular frequency, about inane things such as how his morning coffee had been salted one fateful morning (‘Salted! Is my majesty’s delicate palate unharmed?’ ‘Stop being silly, Merlin, I know perfectly well that you’re laughing at me.’ And he was, so Merlin had nothing much to say after that.) and how his uncle seems to be out to sabotage every single conference he sits in on. (‘Ai, his hand is long!’ ‘Merlin, stop quoting _Lord of the Rings_ at me, or so help me God……’) He’s so delightfully dry, and humorous, and _ordinary_ , and the contrast it strikes with the pissed-off, posh businessman Merlin had first seen is so toe-curlingly _warm_ that Merlin can’t help but smile like a loon. And, oh, gods, after how he’d reacted at their first meeting……

He knows he’s probably overstepped the line, but when he’d seen the polished, stern-faced businessman step in after this bruised waif of a child, all he could think of was _Will_ , bruised but defiant, so skinny you could count his ribs, set to fight against the entire _world_ on principle alone. That haunted, broken look in his eyes that showed something had shattered inside and would never be quite right again. And then he couldn’t- didn’t- think straight…… He’s mortified, once he realizes what a doting father Arthur actually _is_ behind that stern façade of his, and he ought to be delighted that Arthur has deigned to speak with him at all. For all that he’s been prattish in his refusal of Merlin’s first, oh, twenty apologies or so.

He’s only properly _known_ Arthur for a few weeks or so, but it feels like they’ve known each other for a lifetime.

Then there’s the dread.

It coils, thin and sinuous in Merlin’s heart, coloring every moment of glee with a sheen of bitterness- because Merlin remembers how Arthur had looked the moment Merlin had let the word _Druidic_ leave his mouth. It was a look with a story behind it, aghast, terrified, hell, _horrified_ even, and while Merlin likes Arthur- likes him very much-

He can’t give up his magic. He can’t. It’s as much a part of him as his eyes, or his hands, or his feet, pooled warm and reassuring in his gut, a comforting presence he’s never been without in his entire life.

And he has the feeling Arthur will most definitely _not_ take it well. 

_Mrrrow,_ Kilgharrah says, curling up on Merlin’s lap. His claws prick through the thick fabric of Merlin’s pajama pants, leaving red marks on his skin. Merlin picks him up and cuddles him in his arms.

“Yeah, little guy, I know too. It’s a fix, isn’t it?”

_Mrrrp._

“I know, I know.” A sigh. “I suppose things will iron out somehow.”

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“Be careful, Merlin,” is Freya’s greeting. She’s in charge of three avenues or so down by Greenwich, with a special knack for flowers and animals. Her special hitchhiker of the day is a very opinionated sparrow, which has taken to attacking Merlin’s scarves with a ferocity that belies its tiny size.

“Huh?” Merlin asks, pouring two cups of tea, plonking a square of sugar into his and a dash of milk for Freya’s. “Did I get into trouble with the brownies again? Bloody hell, thought I’d paid them off well enough last time around……”

“Don’t think to worm your way out of this!” Freya’s probably giving Merlin one of her patented mother-knows-all looks known to reduce Bengal tigers into meek quivering kitties, from the way the back of his neck is tingling. “You may be my boss, Merlin, but I’m your friend too. It’s a fine line you’re walking.”

“I’m not worming my way out of anything,” Merlin protests, exasperated. Freya’s sparrow has hopped into Merlin’s shoulder and taken a liking to Merlin’s ear, if the way it’s nibbling happily away at it is any indication. With a careful brush of magic, Merlin dislodges it onto his haphazard tea-table and conjures a tiny tree-branch for it to sit on. “I honestly don’t know. Is there anything I should be aware about? Anyone trying to attack London again?”

Merlin may be rather scatterbrained at times, but he does take his job as the High Warlock of London quite seriously. There’s over a thousand witches and warlocks and assorted creatures under his protection; he can’t afford a slip in his vigilance.

Freya’s brown eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Please don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“Okay.” Merlin swallows. “I knew. No, shit, Freya- what is it that I should be knowing about?”

“It’s all over the under-world, Merlin! That you’re bloody flirting with _the_ Arthur Pendragon!”

Merlin’s lightbulb shatters overhead. Merlin hisses out a curse and glues it back up, leaving it suspended above the tea-table. “What? I mean, I did meet Arthur, but he’s…… oh, _shit._ Bloody buggering _shit._ ”

Arthur’s last name. Merlin doesn’t know Arthur’s last name. And hell, if he’s _Uther Pendragon’s_ son- there’s nothing strange about him fearing magic, hating it, flinching at the mere sight of it. But Arthur’s signs hadn’t been that of one well aware of magic and hating it━ it had been more of an ingrained response, surprise, shock, vague horror. No, Merlin is pretty sure that Arthur isn’t aware of his father’s more unsavory activities.

Still-

“ _Shite_ ,” Merlin says again, banging his forehead on the table for good measure. Freya’s sparrow twitters and flaps its wings. It must have picked up on the unrest in Merlin’s magic; the animals always do, somehow. “I’m fucked up. No, really, I am the stupidest warlock who has ever warlock-ed.”

Freya takes a sip of her tea and gives him a sympathetic smile. And sighs.

“I suppose you’re well past the age where I can take you by the collar and force you to do things,” she says, sounding for all purposes like the grandmother she isn’t, “but be careful, Merlin? For me.”

“Yeah,” Merlin sighs, feeling like there’s a giant ball of hair stuck somewhere down his sarcophagus. The tea doesn’t seem quite so appetizing anymore. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

Freya leaves in a flourish of scarves and feathers.

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Arthur sends another message, the next day. Merlin torments himself for exactly two hours and thirty-six seconds before typing back a response. _Oh, bloody hell._ Merlin curses Arthur’s dry wit, his surprising un-prattishness, the roman curve of his nose, his strong jaw, blue eyes, and most of all, his own staggering stupidity.

Most certainly not a good idea, Merlin thinks, glum, even as the corners of his mouth make a valiant effort to twitch up in a traitorous smile.

_Stupidest Warlock to ever have warlock-ed_ , Merlin thinks, miserably. His mother was right; he should never have moved out to London in the first place.


	5. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred falls sick on the day of Arthur's date. Merlin comes over to help out.   
> Domestic Fluff ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'd promised daily updates for six chapters or so, and I am so sorry for having skipped yesterday! Once my body found its way to the bed it didn't want to come out again. (Brrr, winter......) But today's chapter is here, now. Hope you all enjoy it :)

Mordred falls ill on the morning of Arthur and Merlin’s first date. There’s no outward symptoms, not like that time Mordred had eaten some stale shellfish and gotten rosy splotches all over his tiny body, but his eyes have that glassy sheen characteristic of fever patients and his forehead is slick with sweat.

“ _Go_ , da,” Mordred says, blue eyes wide and stubborn. Then he lets out a long, wheezing breath, which rather ruins the effect. “I know you’ve been looking forward to this for days.”

Arthur has; looking up restaurants that were nice but not too posh (Gwaine laughed at him for an entire day- _experiencing the peasant life, princess?_ ), booking tickets for the latest action film (lots of hacking and axes and gore, but based on their last conversation that was probably the sort of movie Merlin would appreciate.) only the beginning of it. But Arthur also likes to pride himself on being a somewhat responsible parent, and responsible parents do not go gallivanting off with their boyfriends when their children are lying sick in bed.

Arthur sighs. Of course with his luck something like this would happen━ he still remembers the time the building caught fire in his first college date and everyone had had to evacuate hacking and screaming. At least this time there hasn’t been any unfortunate demise of nearby persons.

_So sorry. Mordred very ill. Would another day be alright?_ No, too formal. That’s the sort of tone he reserves for business associates he doesn’t even like. Arthur presses the _back_ button furiously, and then ends up simply calling instead.

Merlin picks up after a minute or so of _Nella Fantasia_. “Oh, Arthur? Anything up?” his voice is light, buoyant, good humor seeping through even with the tinny quality of the phone’s speakers. Arthur bites his lip.

“Yes, actually,” he says. “About today’s date- I think we may have to cancel. Mordred’s been pretty ill all day, and he doesn’t-“ _he doesn’t really have a mother to look after him instead_ , is what Arthur doesn’t say, but by the sympathetic hum that comes through Arthur supposes Merlin’s understood. “So. You now. I think I might have to stay behind to……”

“Yeah, it’s alright, I understand.” Merlin’s voice is soft, sympathetic, and Arthur is struck once again by just how soft Merlin can be when he wants to, for all his sharp edges. “Of course Mordred comes first. Arthur, I wouldn’t force you to go cajoling about London with your kid strapped into his own bed; you know that.”

The image forces a chortle out of Arthur. He adjusts his phone so that it rests a bit more snugly between his neck and shoulder, rummaging for a spoon to stir Mordred’s porridge with.

“So, another day?” Arthur asks, biting his lip. For all that he’s made up his mind, there’s still a part of him that sulks like a petulant child at the idea of having to cancel their date; half of him wants to drag his feet and lie on the floor and have a proper tantrum.

Merlin hums thoughtfully over the line. “Yeah, maybe. Or-“

“Or?”

“Would you mind terribly much if I came over? I mean, I can’t promise that I’ll be a great help, since I’m not medicinally trained or anything, but…… you know, two’s always better than one. Or that’s what my mum always used to say.”

“No!” Arthur yelps as he drops a glop of scalding-hot porridge over his foot. He hisses, gritting his teeth; half a dozen miniature Gwaines are dancing around in his feet, singing _Princess is smitten, Princess is smitten_. Gods, Arthur really should fire Gwaine sometime soon, for his mental health if not for anything else.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Merlin sounds crestfallen, which has suddenly risen to the number one unforgivable sin in Arthur’s mind. “I could always come around another time. Or not at all.”

“Good grief, Merlin, no! I meant- I don’t mind. At all.”

_This is a bad idea_ , a little part of Arthur whispers. _No, it’s a fabulous idea; you have leftover chicken parmesan and bread-crumbs from last time, woo him with good food and tell him you want a happily-ever-after_ , whispers a significantly larger part of him.

_Be quiet_ , Arthur tells it. It doesn’t listen.

“Alright! I’ll be there around━ six alright with you?”

“Yes, fine! Totally fine!” Arthur slams his finger down on the call button, cutting off the call before he can make a larger fool of himself. _Shite. Shite_. Arthur sighs.

“Mordred, is Merlin coming over alright with you?”

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Arthur opens the door to the delicious scent of chocolate and orange.

Merlin’s nose is adorably red from the cold, a smudge of pink adorning each high cheekbone, and Merlin’s nose crinkles in a sheepish grin as he unwinds his Rudolph scarf from around his neck. A few stray snowflakes are adorning his long, spidery lashes, a stark backdrop to Merlin’s summer-sky eyes, and Arthur’s breath hitches in his throat.

Something warm and hefty and wholesome-smelling is shoved into Arthur’s hand. “Ngh?” is Arthur’s intelligent response.

Arthur isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s proud- nothing wrong with being concerned about how you look to other people, because a good image is a surprisingly powerful weapon to have- but something dangerously gooey blooms in his gut when Merlin throws his head back and laughs at him. Merlin’s profile glints winter-pale in the stark lighting of his flat’s corridor.

“Chocolate orange scones,” Merlin says. “They’re a recipe in progress. I mean, I heard citruses are supposed to be good for colds- so I figured, _hell, why not?_ If it turns out Mordred can’t eat them then you could always steal them, and that’s what I call a win-win situation.”

Arthur can’t help but laugh back. “You’re a horrible person. With Mordred lying sick and prone……”

Merlin swears under his breath, as Arthur holds the door open for him and he makes his way into the flat. “Shite. That bad? I could always come back another time━”

“No, it’s not that bad.” Arthur remembers Mordred’s glassy-eyed gaze, flushed cheeks stark against his pale, clammy face, and bites his lip. But it can’t be _that_ bad, can it? Arthur had checked his temperature, everything, and nothing had seemed worse than a bad case of the flu…… He pushes that nagging clump of worry back down with a firm touch. “He’ll be alright. Mordred, Merlin’s here!”

“Merlin?” Mordred’s excited voice sounds from behind his door, and he’s tackled Merlin down in a flurry of happy, childish steps. “Merlin! You’re here!”

“Careful! What did I say about giving other people germs?”

“Wash your hands, not too close,” Mordred quotes dutifully. Merlin laughs.

“It’s alright; I have an excellent immune system.” Merlin crouches down, expertly lifting Mordred into a hug. Then his face tenses, jaw clenching, brow furrowing in concern. Merlin’s fingers tighten imperceptibly in Mordred’s back, and though it’s only for a heartbeat, Merlin’s face easing back into his normal carefree expression as if nothing’s amiss, Arthur has been _trained_ to read people all his life, to catch the smallest signs and act on them. _The difference between a botched business meeting and a successful one._ Arthur does not miss.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, involuntarily taking a step forward. He feels a slight, imperceptible clench in his gut, fists tightening of their own accord. _Tattoo- druidic- tangled blonde hair, screams in the middle of the night- mother_.

Merlin smiles, but it’s a thin, wan thing, that familiar crinkle near the edge of his eyes conspicuously absent. “No, nothing,” he says. “So, Mordred, do you feel up for some scones?”

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Merlin keeps sneaking glances at Mordred when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking, and that inexplicable sense of dread that creeps through Arthur’s veins like liquid steel doesn’t lessen, but they have an enjoyable evening for all that. Arthur keeps feeling as if there’s something that he’s missing, that he ought to be looking harder for it, but even the prickle of guilt isn’t enough to keep his posture from softening, lips from curving into a fond, indulgent smile, to keep him from laughing at every one of Merlin’s inane jokes.

Merlin isn’t as cheerful as that first dinner they’d shared, but this quieter side of him brings out a hilariously droll sense of humor, and Arthur’s jaw nearly aches from how hard he smiles. Mordred sneaks him a knowing glance- _really, toddlers oughtn’t be able to give Looks like that_ \- and Arthur blushes and tickles his foot under the cover of the table.

Arthur does end up sharing his leftover chicken parmesan, because it’s actually the best he’s made so far, and Mordred putters about in his furry pajamas, occasionally stopping to slurp porridge out of his bowl and crawl onto Merlin’s lap.

“Mordred,” Arthur admonishes, but Merlin smiles down at Mordred like he’s an adorable little kitten (which, to speak the truth, he sometimes really is) and the whole scene is so heart-meltingly fuzzy that Arthur can’t really bring himself to speak with any heat.

They end up watching _the Princess Bride_ , Mordred snuggled between them like a particularly cushiony blanket-sandwich, Merlin’s toe pressed warm and solid against his own. Mordred eventually drifts off to sleep, but he does wake up to mouth the iconic “ _My name is Inigo Montoya, prepare to die!_ ” with enthusiastic glee. Arthur bites his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud, and oh, this is so very not who he is- Arthur Pendragon does _not_ laugh, or giggle, or give people warm looks as he squeezes their fingers in his own. (And when did _that_ happen, now?)

“Bloodthirsty little thing, isn’t he,” Merlin says with a raised brow. “Makes me wonder what kind of example he’s been reared on.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Arthur snips back, nudging Arthur’s foot with his. “At least I’m not as belligerent as certain people I know.”

“Hey! That was a total mistake━” Merlin covers his face with his hands, shaking his head. “You’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”

“No, never,” Arthur replies, gleeful, and a small, tentative part of him says:

Yes. Maybe- maybe everything will be all right.


	6. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has a problem. A curseword-inducing, hair-ripping problem. But that's what old (albeit feline) friends are for, isn't it?  
> Also, some Breaking and Entering, and Merlin pays Mordred a visit in the deep of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Arthur in this one :( - but there's Mordred being adorable and Merlin being soft and the two generally being heart-warming together, so hopefully that is enough. :>

Merlin bites out a curse as soon as Arthur’s door closes behind him. Then, once he’s on the tube and most certain Arthur isn’t going to hear anything he says, he adds a dozen more in the Old Tongue for good measure. _Bloody hell. Oh, bloody buggering hell_.

Of all the things to befall him━

_Mordred has magic._

He’d known he was pretty much walking into his own grave when he’d decided to go out with Arthur Pendragon, of all people, but now- this is a mess so massive that even the gods probably won’t be able to unravel it. He’d felt the faint spark of magic from the first level, before he’d gotten onto the lift, but he’d thought absentmindedly that there must be some hedge-witch or some such living down here, should probably pay them a visit sooner or later-

But then Arthur opens his door, and the flare of magic only got brighter, and Mordred had run right to him in all his bleary-eyed glory and jumped into his embrace, and Merlin had realized: shite, shite, Mordred Pendragon has magic _. And he probably doesn’t even know_.

Mordred _is_ around the age that magic would normally manifest in people, about four or five. (Merlin had been quite the magical baby, he’s been told, happily summoning pacifiers and giant plush toys before his mother could quite get around getting them for him- but, well, though Merlin wouldn’t call himself vain he is aware of the fact that he isn’t quite the norm, either.) Merlin’s heard gossip about how sometimes young witches or warlocks would make themselves ill, subconsciously repressing their magic, making it seethe and smother without being let out to the surface. But he’d always thought it was just that, gossip, nothing more and nothing less, and to see _Mordred_ of all people suffering like that━

Probably whatever’s made Arthur close off as soon as he hears something about magic, Merlin supposes. He hasn’t pried, hasn’t tried to know, because for one that would be opening a whole can of worms better left undisturbed, and also he isn’t too sure of where he stands with Arthur. There’s the whole issue of _Uther Pendragon_ being his father, Merlin’s magic, so many things standing like giant boulders between them that lends an edge to whatever good times they manage to have together.

Merlin knows that he ought to speak to Mordred about this. Magic repressed like that won’t keep for long, often bubbling over in an explosion that hurts its wielder more than anything else, and that’s the exact sort of thing that Merlin as High Warlock of London is charged to try and stop. But damn, _Arthur_ , he can’t afford to let Arthur catch him……

_Selfish_ , a little voice whispers somewhere in his heart. _Selfish_. Merlin’s hands feel cold and clammy, magic roiling sickeningly about in his gut. _Selfish._

“I know,” Merlin mutters miserably as he unlocks his flat and pushes the door in. It’s small and clattered, nothing like Arthur’s spacious well-lit abode, and he looks down only to find that Kilgharrah’s shredded his second-favorite pair of socks to tatters and converted it into a makeshift ball toy. Kilgarrah meows at him, dragging his scarred flank across Merlin’s trouser leg, yellow eyes wide and knowing.

Merlin can’t find it in himself to be angry at him.

“I know,” he says, again. “I know. Terrible mess, isn’t it?”

Kilgharrah gives him another Look and bats at his foot.

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Five pulverized weed-stalks, twenty-two flipped coins, and uncountable reproving head-butts from Kilgharrah later, Merlin finds himself hovering outside of Mordred’s window, magically invisible and shivering himself sick in his plain jeans and threadbare jumper.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters to himself. “A terrible, horrible, no-good idea. Gods, Merlin Emrys, you are an idiot.”

Still, he manages not to hesitate too much as he tries the lock and, finding it locked, coaxes his magic into the steel and slides it softly open. For all of Merlin’s supposed power, the thing doesn’t come with added agility, and Merlin bangs his head on the windowsill as he half-sneaks, half-tumbles into the room. _Definitely not ninja material._

Mordred’s room is shrouded in shadow, the crescent moon casting pale strokes of light over the hardwood floor. Mordred’s bed is tucked over in the far corner, and Merlin pads over, quiet as he can manage. He leans over, wondering how best to shake Mordred gently awake━

And is caught in a surprisingly strong choke-hold, hand scrabbling helplessly at Mordred’s child-sized desk, feet slipping on the polished boards of the floor. Merlin’s magic leaps to the surface, tingling under his skin like living electricity, eager to defend its owner. Merlin clenches his teeth and forces it down; he oughtn’t spook Mordred any further than he probably has.

“Mordred! It’s me! Merlin!”

“Merlin?” the hold loosens, and Merlin gasps for breath as Mordred draws back and looks at him through narrowed eyes. The light of the moon glints silvery off his pale eyes. “Say something only Merlin would know.”

“Purple Pumpkin bread,” Merlin says, because it’s been a running joke between them, coming up with increasingly silly menu names for Merlin’s new concoctions. Mordred relaxes slightly. “Why are you in my room right now? Da says I shouldn’t trust people who sneak in without his permission.”

Merlin can’t help but stifle a smile at that. Of course Arthur would have prepared Mordred against everything; ‘always be prepared’ is probably written into his genetic cord in Gothic Bold. Merlin sighs, biting his lip. It’s never easy, breaking it to the young ones, but Mordred- _gods, give me strength. Merciful maiden, I am not qualified for this._

“May I sit?” Merlin asks instead, patting at a spot near the foot of Mordred’s bed. Mordred nods, scooting obligingly over.

“I’m only not screaming because it’s you,” he says, blue eyes wide and serious, solemn in the way that only young children can be. “Da told me to scream, you know.”

“Yes. Your father is a very wise man.” A frisson of warmth blooms in Merlin’s chest, Mordred’s frank, trusting gaze cutting through his defenses like a hot knife through butter. _Like father, like son, indeed._ “Mordred.” A swallowed breath, an imperceptible tightening of his grip on Mordred’s sheets. “There’s no easy way to put this. Mordred, I’m a wizard.”

Mordred’s eyes are quiet but sad. “Magic isn’t real. Da says so.”

“I know, and your da is very wise,” Merlin says, a pang running through his heart at the memory of Arthur’s cold, distant eyes, that near-instinctive horror that had flitted his expression at the sight of Merlin’s tattoo. “But there are some things he doesn’t know, either, because they’re secrets. This is one of them.”

Mordred’s bottom lip trembles. “No. you’re lying.”

“I’m not.” A dozen spells flit across Merlin’s mind in that split second, and he has never regretted so much that the magic he’s best at is the terrible, gruesome kind, battle-magics that burn and tear and rend. In the end, he simply opens his palm and wills his magic to flow where it will. It pools, warm and eager, before blossoming into the shape of a miniature castle with a knight galloping across the court-yard on a little pony made of sparks.

Mordred’s breath, still fever-hot and dry, blows out in a soft exhale. The castle spews out sparks in green and red and blue, and Mordred tentatively reaches out a finger, prodding. Merlin smiles. “It’s alright. You can touch.”

Mordred’s finger pokes at the castle, and a sharp golden spark runs up his hand like a fuse, exploding before the little boy’s eyes in a dazzling shower of light. Mordred giggles, delighted. “ _Oh._ Merlin, it’s amazing!”

“Really?”

“Really, really, really.” Mordred bounces a little on his mattress in his excitement, eyes lighting up like bulbs on a Christmas tree. It’s so open, so sweet, so innocent, that Merlin wants to capture the scene in his heart, wants to keep it close so he can look back on it and smile whenever things seem too bleak. “Merlin, then can you pull rabbits out of hats? Can you? Sefa says her father’s a magician and that he can pull _five_ bunnies out of his- I bet you could do more. I bet you could do _six._ ”

Merlin huffs out a laugh at that. “I bet I could, Mordred. I bet I could, too. But━ that’s not why I sneaked into your room today.”

Mordred tenses, biting his lip. “It wasn’t?”

“Yes.” A heartbeat’s pause. “Mordred, I have magic, but…… you do, too. You’re magic, Mordred.”

“But━ that’s cool, isn’t it? I mean, if I could make pictures out of thin air like you did……” then Mordred deflates visibly, shoulders curling into himself. “Oh. But da- he won’t like it, will he?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Merlin swallows with some difficulty, running his fingers through Mordred’s messy tangle of curls. It’s surprisingly soft, like baby down, and springy, bouncing back into shape as soon as his fingers comb through them. “I think your body knows that, too, and it’s trying to keep the magic down. But the magic doesn’t like it. I think that’s what’s making you sick.”

“Oh.” Mordred looks down at his fingers. “It does feel like that sometimes. Like there’s something inside my body that wants to get out. It _hurts._ ” His eyes meet Merlin’s, soft like moon-stone in the wan light of the night. “So you came to help me? In secret, so da doesn’t know?”

“Yeah. That sounds about right. Yeah.” Merlin takes in a breath, a little stunned that Mordred has taken this revelation so well- that he’s trusted _Merlin_ so much- but also aching, aching for this little one who can’t tell his own father his biggest secret. _Merlin will be here for him_ , Merlin swears to himself. _He’ll be here for Mordred, and Arthur too, if he’ll take him. He’ll be here for them both_.

“Mordred, you’ll have to━ I’m going to have to do a ritual. Ri-tu-al. It might hurt a little bit, but you’ll feel a lot better after, I promise. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

A pause. A night-bird caws, softly, somewhere far off behind them. Mordred’s face is way older than a child’s ought to be, quietly resigned. “But it’ll have to be our secret, won’t it?”

“Yeah.” Merlin pulls Mordred into a crushing embrace. “Yeah, it will. It will.”

_And I’ll always be here for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of my promised daily updates- chapter six! Now, well, time for the Verdict.  
> I'd said back in the first chapter that I'd first post six chapter or so and then ask for your opinions, about whether to discontinue this or not. I don't think I'll discontinue it either way, now (never good to get into the habit of dropping things halfway through!:O) but I do want to ask your opinion on one thing.  
> Probably no updates for two weeks or so from now on (I've made the decision to participate in Merthur Week 2020- Yay! - but it was a split-second decision and I don't have anything written in advance, so next week will probably be a crazy week of crunch-writing. And the week after that, a probably sorely-needed week of cooling down. Thus the pause on updates for this......:O) So, after that, there are two options:  
> a) If you're curious about where this story will lead, then I could keep this as first priority, in which case updates will probably be twice-thrice weekly.  
> or b) If no-one is too interested, this could go onto the back-burner, and I could work on it in-between different projects, in which case updates will be a bit more sporadic.  
> So, let me know what you all think, and I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Stay happy and safe over the holidays <3<3


	7. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ritual, and the aftermath.  
> Not really sure if this chapter merits its title, because it switches pov's midway through, but I just love naming chapters after characters (lots of happy childhood reading memories wrapped up there), so please bear with me. :) Merlin->Arthur seemed a bit weird in print XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back as promised! Updates will probably be every Wednesday and Saturday, with extra surprise updates squeezed in if I manage to finish enough back-up chapters in time. Hope you enjoy, and HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! Sincerely hope you are all well and safe in these turbulent times, and I hope this little story manages to give you a tiny bit of fun in the midst of the pandemic. :(

Merlin stretches, feeling his magic purring along his veins like a satiated cat. The ritual had gone off without a hitch, and seeing Mordred’s entire face lit up as he’d summoned up a flame onto his open palm had been worth all the resulting sleep deprivation and more. (‘You’ll come and teach me how to use it? You will, Merlin, right?’ ‘ _No, Mordred_ , of course I will. Now don’t be daft.’) There’s always a certain satisfaction that comes with putting things to right, like a puzzle piece clicking into place━ almost as if the entire world is humming in tandem with himself.

Merlin hums tunelessly along to All Time Low’s _Time Bomb_ \- yes, Warlocks are entitled to wireless music too- butchering half the lyrics and mangling the rest beyond recognition. The moon is out, golden shafts of light spilling out from the street-lamps and illuminating the spinning motes of dust in the pale, wintry fog.

Merlin’s good mood only lasts until he arrives at his flat.

There are two sets of shoes in the corridor- he hadn’t felt any disturbances in his wards, and Merlin does have enough faith in his wards so as to believe that he’d at least have been alerted if anyone had attempted to dismantle it. Freya, probably, then. Merlin’s wards are conditioned to recognize her magical signal and let her in. A shiver of apprehension runs up his spine. Freya’s an old friend, for all her nagging, but that she brought another over without alerting him first━

That probably means business. And no, not of the good kind. Merlin’s magic sparks and arcs across his skin, eager to respond to whatever threat will come up next, and Merlin pulls it down with a sharp twist. _Down_ , he tells it. It won’t do to go about leaking signs of his magic willy-nilly. Heaven knows he has enough on his plate without bringing magic-hunters down on his own roof.

A pair of familiar, stern blue eyes meet his as he steps into his flat. Back ramrod-straight, posture that wouldn’t have been out of place in the military’s barracks, dry, businesslike gaze, high cheekbones, stern mouth, topped off with a pair of aviators and battered leather jacket, thick boots tapping impatiently upon Merlin’s floor. _Morgause_. It’s not often that he sees the battle-hardened witch, her grounds being more about the suburbs of London than in London itself, and Merlin tenses. They’re not really on the best of terms since he’d told her in no uncertain terms that _no, you can’t go about hunting the magic-hunters,_ because he doesn’t care what she gets up to in her free time but he refuses to fall to the same level as them. Morgause wouldn’t have agreed to come along unless it had been something really serious.

Freya wrings her hands from her spot on the sofa, looking like Morgause’s eccentric forest-dweller of a sister with her taupe scarf and daisies woven into her hair. Two chipmunks titter nervously, hopping down from the top of her head and curling themselves protectively about her neck. “Merlin! I hadn’t known what to do━”

“So the lover boy returns,” Morgause cuts her off, voice icy like a whip. “Had a good time, did you?”

“Yes,” Merlin grits his teeth, flush threatening to rise to his cheeks. He knows that’s what Morgause does best, get under people’s skins and flay them wide open, and he refuses to be the one to fall for it. “I did, thank you, and you know full well that’s none of your business. Now- what’s the matter?”

“And you know for certain that there’s a problem?” Morgause’s tone is challenging. Merlin meets her gaze head-on. He’s had plenty of people underestimate him after he’d taken the mantle of High Warlock from Gaius, because to be honest Merlin is well aware of the fact that cheerful, young face and easygoing demeanor an imposing figure does not make━ and Morgause most certainly won’t be the last.

“You and I both know full well that you wouldn’t have come with Freya if it wasn’t serious. So.” Merlin seats himself by the coffee table between Freya and Morgause, and flicks his wrist to bring three cups zooming over from the clutter of his kitchen. Another flick fills them to the brim with steaming tea. “Tell me. What _is_ going on in London?”

“It’s been━”

“Kidnappings.” Morgause cuts in again. Merlin gives her a look, but Morgause barges on, voice heavy with anger. “Kidnappings. I didn’t think much of it, at first, because children on the street- you know better than anyone, Warlock. I would hunt every single culprit down, tear them apart if I have to, but there’s always only so much we can do.”

Merlin bites his lip. It is a fact; magical children tend to lead far more tremulous lives than most. A fact, but a painful one. “Yes. I am well aware of that.”

Morgause’s nod is curt. “Yes. But since about a week ago- it’s been stranger. Children vanishing from their homes. Missing on their way back from school. And then Freya-“

“I’ve seen them, Merlin,” Freya breaks in, voice trembling. She looks up, and Merlin is ashamed to see a sheen of tears in her eyes. It must have been fairly recent, since Freya seems to have come over as soon as whatever she’s seen has happened, but Merlin-

Merlin had been with Arthur, and then Mordred, and…… he remembers how he’d turned his phone off for the ritual, and quickly flicks it open to check. Three missed calls from Freya. _Shite_. Merlin bites his lip. What kind of friend does that make him?

A wave of shame washes over him. He’d been so happy, so giddy, Arthur asking him to come over, Mordred accepting his magic without much hassle…… never-mind that his boyfriend was _Uther Pendragon’s_ son. Merlin knows better than anyone that you oughtn’t judge people by their parents, and Arthur really does seem not to know about his father’s underground activities for all that he seemed disturbed by the word _magic_ , and yet- he should have been more careful. He shouldn’t have rushed into it head-over-heels the way he had.

He has a responsibility for every single magic-user in greater London, damn it. And he’d nearly _forgotten_. Bile rises thick in his throat, and Merlin swallows. “You’ve seen?”

“I saw them take a child with my own two eyes.” Guilt. Shame. Freya breaks down into a hiccup, burying her face in her hands. “They- I think they had magic suppressors, Merlin. It was a split second, they had these cuffs around the child’s wrists- and I tried to stop them- but then they looked at me, and our eyes met for a split-second, and then……” She lets out a deep, shuddering breath. Beside her, Morgause runs her hand over her back in a slow, soothing motion. Freya meets Merlin’s eyes with a watery, red-rimmed gaze. “ _Bang_ , they’re gone. I think they’ve employed sorcerers now. I tried every single thing I could think of- tracking, searching for traces of spellwork- nothing. I think they had a point set up for quick escape.”

“I found her, told her we should come over to yours.” Morgause has an arm curled around Freya’s shoulders, heavy and reassuring, but her tone is curt. It’s a tone Merlin recognizes- it’s how he himself sounds when he’s clamping down on anger, guilt, crushing impotency, letting only the most businesslike of signals filter through. “I heard what she had to say- and it sounds systematic, Emrys. The tyrant has gotten impatient.”

Merlin grits his teeth. For all that Uther Pendragon rages about the evils of magic- for him to have brought sorcerers under his employ. _Hypocrisy at its finest_. Merlin thinks of Arthur, tentative, hopeful, reaching out to him even after Merlin’s seen him bloody _flinch_ at the mere sight of his _triskele_ , and curses. Arthur isn’t like Uther, Merlin knows. Knows, believes, if he ever was a decent judge of character. And yet━

Merlin knows he can’t bear to drag himself away from Arthur, especially now, when he’s practically adopted Mordred as his own. Even for the fact that all that they’ve had is- what, a first date now? -his heart seems to have raced ahead and declared its thoughts for Arthur for the whole world to hear. But how _can_ he face Arthur, now, now that a horrifying suspicion of what Uther may up to has begun to form?

_Will Arthur even believe him if he tries to warn him about his father?_

Oh, bloody hell. It’s shite in a handbasket if Merlin’s ever seen one.

“It’s- a purge,” he says, daring to voice the one word everyone has been skirting around. “A purge. He’s been targeting the younger ones, you said.”

“Under ten, yes.” Morgause’s lips thin. “Emrys. You need to do something. These _children_ -“

“You said you tried tracking spells?” Merlin turns towards Freya. For all his sheer power, Freya’s actually much better than him with things that require finesse, and charms like these are her specialty. She nods. “Nothing. I think they’ve found a way to use their magic-suppressants to erase their trail.”

Merlin curses in the old tongue. “Alright. I’ll try again anyway- you’ll take me to where you’ve seen this, later?”

Freya nods.

“Alright, good. And Morgause, do you think you could round up the ones on the streets, distribute them amongst the other Magic-users? Have everyone participating in casting protective charms, send some round to me if you haven’t got enough power left around. And make sure to alert all the others. I’ll reach out, too, but I know you have more connections than I do.”

Morgause’s eyes widen at the admission. She gives him a sharp nod. “Consider that done.”

“Alright. Good. Fine.” Adrenaline leaves Merlin in a dizzying rush, and he presses the heels of his hands into his face, hard, relishing the ache. Then a thought hits him like a railroad:

_Mordred._

Mordred’s magic will be the most easy to detect, having newly come into his powers and all. He has no-one in the magical community save Merlin, and━

_Shite. He has to warn Arthur._

Arthur may well think he’s off his rockers, but Merlin’s sworn to Mordred he’d keep him safe, and he refuses to fail him now.

◌★◌

“So,” Gwaine says, wriggling his eyebrow. Arthur wonders if Gwaine secretly practices the maneuver- _is_ rather impressive, if totally inane. He has to stifle a snort. The image of Gwaine standing in front of a mirror, taking notes on how best to move his eyebrow for maximum effect, is something beyond hilarious. “A little bird told me that our Princess finally went on a _date._ ”

Arthur flushes, thinking back on Merlin’s flushed nose, the blush tinting his cheekbones, that terrifyingly intimate way his lashes had fluttered when Arthur had dared to wind an arm around his waist.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur blusters, giving Gwaine a look. “Everyone knows you’re not to be truested; _especially_ when our love lives are on the table. Who on earth told you so anyway?”

Gwaine leans back against his seat, smug as a cat that got the cream. He laughs, flicking his hair away from his face.

“Ah, but a good detective never gives away his informants.”

_Mordred_ , Arthur decides. It must be him. He’s taking away his television privileges for a _month_.

“No, but Arthur, we’re happy for you, really.” Leon chimes in, always the one to be serious. It’s a levity that Arthur both knows and respects, and Arthur has a flitting thought that Leon will probably look as calm and sincere giving his future children the Talk. Arthur has seen Leon’s recent search histories, and if the sudden enthusiasm about jewelry of the gold-and-diamond kind is any indication, that might actually not be all that too far off. “You’ve looked- more settled. Happier. Whoever it is has been good for you.”

“And we’ve all seen how attached to your mobile you’ve grown,” Elena smirks knowingly. “I’m getting a little hunch here……”

“Elena!” Arthur groans, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. “Some of us have work to do, you know.”

“Ah, and there’s the prat we all know and love.”

Damn it; they’re his friends, but some days he wants to round up the bloody lot of them and throw them bodily into the Thames. Arthur’s mind wanders to Merlin, unbidden. He would have laughed along with them, Arthur decides. Eyes twinkling, that dimpled grin dancing about his mouth. Heavens know he enjoys poking fun at Arthur as much as the next person. But he would have squeezed his hand under the table, maybe a reassuring nudge at his foot- a silent message that it’s all in good fun, that he commiserates with him, but, well, _friends will be friends, and what can they do?_

A dazzling contradiction wrapped up in a wild-haired, bright-eyed package, that’s what Merlin is. Full of sharp edges but surprisingly soft once you get inside. Three pairs of knowing eyes find his over the tacky booth, and Arthur smiles, helpless, shaking his head.

He isn’t as young and naïve as he once was. He knows enough not to believe in love at first glance, at destinies that tie two people together like so many strands of fate’s thread. Love is a process; building, exploring, breaking apart and sometimes gluing bits back together again just to make it work.

He wouldn’t call what he and Merlin has love, yet. No. Far from that. And yet-

He can’t quite chase the feeling that they’re teetering dangerously close to the edge.

*

It’s not often that Arthur manages to get together with his friends, and he stuffs himself on cheap beer and greasy fish’n’chips, laughing outrageously at Gwaine’s bawdy humor and Elena’s ridiculous antics, occasionally aiming a well-earned kick under the table.

His phone rings.

“Go get it,” Elyan grins, twitching his eyebrows suggestively. Gods, the horrible influence Gwaine has had on all of them…… Arthur grumbles, knocking his knees on the table once before managing to squeeze himself out. The night air is surprisingly chilly against Arthur’s alcohol-heated skin, and he pulls his muffler a little tighter around his neck, switching from foot to foot in an effort to warm himself up.

It’s a call from Merlin. Merely seeing the name on the screen of his phone makes him giddy like a teenager, and Arthur sighs, breath escaping his mouth in a long, frosty trail of white. Merlin’s never called him before, and Arthur entertains himself imagining all the inane things it might be about-

An offer for a date, maybe. Or an offer to come around to Arthur’s because his newest batch of Orange-zest pound cake has turned out just so. Arthur wouldn’t put such ridiculousness past Merlin.

Two jabs with inebriated fingers, and he’s on.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, determined not to sound over-eager. Merlin’s answering voice is cracked, rough, hoarse, and tinged with the barest edge of panic. Dread begins to build in Arthur’s chest.

“Arthur, it’s- me.”

“Yes. I know.” Arthur bites his lip, growing impatient. “Merlin, what is it? It’s not like you to call in the middle of the night-“

“Arthur, it’s me, Merlin.” The barest of pauses. “And I think Mordred’s in danger.”

_To be continued……_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty much sleepy and incoherent so I'm not sure if I've managed a decent A/N, but...... constructive criticism is always welcome, so please don't hesitate to let me know what you thought! Also, please let me know if there are any glaring plot holes- I do leave those around sometimes, and it's always fantastic when someone lets me know where hurried patch-ups are necessary. <3<3


	8. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Our Corner of the World:  
> “Merlin?” Arthur says, determined not to sound over-eager. Merlin’s answering voice is cracked, rough, hoarse, and tinged with the barest edge of panic. Dread begins to build in Arthur’s chest.  
>  “Arthur, it’s- me.”  
>  “Yes. I know.” Arthur bites his lip, growing impatient. “Merlin, what is it? It’s not like you to call in the middle of the night-“  
>  “Arthur, it’s me, Merlin.” The barest of pauses. “And I think Mordred’s in danger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are a bit rough in this chapter- but they begin to turn up in the next, believe me, so please bear with this! (guess who pays a little visit in the next chapter? :>)  
> Ah, it's already 2021 new, everyone...... hope this new year has been treating you a lot kinder than the previous one has. :O

“Mordred- fuck.” Arthur curses, the drinks he’s had burning like fire in his veins. For all that Arthur Pendragon prides himself on being as fearless as he need be, if one thing in the world is capable of bringing him crashing down like a train-wreck it’s Mordred being hurt. Arthur has never been selfless; always calculating what he needed to do, when, how much he needed, to get himself to that exact spot he’s needed to be. But for Mordred, he _knows_ that he would tear his career apart by the seams, would scrap the last shreds of his honor and contend himself with being someone else’s doorman for the remainder of his life, if just to get the barest reassurance that he is safe. It’s terrifying as it is exhilarating, and fear jolts through Arthur’s veins like liquid ice.

“Mordred- is he being threatened? Is he alright? Answer me, Merlin.”

“He’s safe. For now.”

Thank the gods. Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The hand that had been grasping his mobile is paper-white and trembling. Several images flash unbidden across his mind- Mordred, bruised and scared and alone, faceless men patrolling about him, locked in some grotesque movie-set grungy cell. Mordred held at gunpoint, Mordred terrified and crying for him……

_Shite_. Arthur isn’t sober enough for this. Merlin sounds almost as conflicted as he does, clear tenor bitten off sharply near the end. “Arthur, I’m so, so sorry to call you with news like this. I’d started suspecting around two, three days ago, but my colleague has been making inquiries, and……”

“Wait. It isn’t- the police? On the news? Something? Merlin, why do you think Mordred is in danger?”

A short pause reigns over the phone. Arthur bites his lower lip, hard. He’s somewhat reassured about Mordred’s safety, now, but paralyzing fear of a different kind has begun to race down his spine.

Merlin’s druidic tattoo.

Merlin’s barely-there flinch, that apprehensive glimmer in his eyes-

_I was raised on the old ways._

His mother had been fine, too, father had said. Fine, until she’d met Nimueh, and lost Kay.

Arthur remembers seeing Merlin’s colleague Freya down at Merlin’s bakery, on one memorable occasion. She’d been a flyaway, new-age hippie-type woman, draped in colorful scarves and tartans, feathered earrings dangling from her ear-lobes. She’d smiled at Arthur, somewhat absent-mindedly, eyed him with a decidedly wary air before turning towards Merlin and enquiring about some herb or the other. She had had Merlin’s tattoo, too.

“Merlin.” Arthur tries very hard to keep his voice steady. It isn’t easy; it’s a chilly winter night, and now that the alcohol has begun to wear off Arthur is feeling every inch of the chill. “Merlin. Tell me why you thought Mordred was in danger.”

Merlin’s voice is desperate, impatient over the line. “I told you, Arthur. My colleague made some inquiries, and-“

“And which colleague is that? _Freya_?” Arthur cannot help the sneer that seeps into his voice, the barely-there curl of his lip. He feels Merlin’s flinch like a physical thing, for all that he’s not in the same space as him.

Merlin is almost sobbing now. Desperate with worry.

“Arthur. _You need to listen to me_. Mordred-“

Arthur wants to cry, to throw his arm over his eyes and hide from the world for a fortnight. He hadn’t been ready for this. All he’d been equipped for was a brief, enjoyable night at the pub with good mates, some laughing and commiserating, thinking fondly back on his date with Merlin. He’d thought he could trust him. For all that he’d had that strange tattoo, that faint air of otherness around him, he’d thought that was all there was to Merlin- _a little strange, reared on the old ways_. _But that’s me, isn’t it?_

Will the bloody old ways never leave him alone?

“No,” Arthur grits. “It’s enough that you nearly gave me a heart-attack with this false alarm of yours. I don’t want to listen anymore.”

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice chokes off, as if he’d wanted to say something more but hadn’t. “Arthur-“

“No. Goodbye. Good night, Merlin.”

And then it’s just him, the sound of his breathing, and the liminal, amber light of the streetlamps stretched across the narrow alleyway a little ways out of the pub.

*.*.*.*

The warm air of the pub is a shock after the chill of outside, and the patrons’ chatter hits him like a brick wall.

Elyan, ready as always with a teasing word or too, breaks off into a sympathetic wince as soon as he takes stock of Arthur’s expression. Arthur had always prided himself on being one of the best at hiding what he really felt- a stock skill for executives all over the globe- but apparently, once one’s known another for seven consecutive years, masks really don’t matter as much.

Gwaine, who is a lot sharper than everyone gives him credit for, simply gives Arthur a passing glance and raises his tankard in an exaggeratedly cheerful stagger.

Arthur smiles, a pale stretch that doesn’t really reach his eyes, and lets himself melt into the easy camaraderie of their booth.

*.*.*.*

His day only grows worse from there.

He opens the front door, only to run into Mordred, whole and unharmed, sitting on their sofa toying with an intricately-carved figurine of a wooden dragon. Flecks of gold glimmer in its scales, its impressively detailed mouth opened wide in a defiant roar, and there’s a loop on the top of its head that’s linked to a stretch of twine. Meant to be worn, then.

Mordred is staring at it, almost entranced, turning the figurine this way and that in his chubby, child’s hands. The figure is undoubtedly something wiccan in origin, _druidic_ , maybe, and Arthur wants to rush forwards and snatch it from his hands, smash it on the ground and watch it shatter to a million pieces.

Arthur must have made some sound. Mordred turns, lips parted, and starts as if he hadn’t expected Arthur to be there. Arthur catches the minutest of flinches, and something breaks a little further deep inside his chest.

Great. Now his son is afraid of him as well.

_Like father, like son?_ A small voice inside him taunts, and Arthur grits his teeth, clenching his fists at his sides. No. Never. Arthur understands his father, the inevitability of it all, but- he would turn himself out onto the streets before Mordred knows discipline as he does.

A deep breath. Another.

“Mordred,” Arthur says, once he’s reasonably confident that his voice will not betray him.

Mordred inclines his head. “Da.”

“That’s a nice doll.” Arthur toes off his shoes, discarding them in favor of more comfortable slippers, and strides forward, careful to be quiet, nonthreatening. Leaning forward, he can count every individual lash on Mordred’s cheek, the faint blush that rests on his cherubic face. A wash of protectiveness rises in him, and Arthur crouches. “Who gave it to you?”

Mordred hesitates a split second before answering, and Arthur knows the answer before it leaves Mordred’s lips. _Merlin_.

Mordred clutches it close to his chest, almost as if it’s something unbearably precious to him. Arthur has always been careful with introducing strangers to Mordred. But how did he let Merlin grow so close, so fast?

It almost feels like betrayal. Merlin. Lovely, smiling Merlin, intriguing and open in equal measure, hot-headed but somehow unbearably soft and kind to boot. Arthur thinks of the soft-spoken man who had cradled Mordred’s fingers like something precious, who had bopped Mordred on the nose and made him laugh with the most outrageous of Thomas the Train impersonations. Hell, who had even made Arthur laugh- and pretty much everyone knows that’s a considerable feat. He tries to reconcile it with the screaming, broken-eyed image of Ygraine in her dying days, the dark-hearted terror steeping in every corner of the house.

He can’t.

Confusing. So, so confusing.

But the irrational fear in Merlin’s voice when he’d called him. That terror that barely crossed a line to somewhere beyond the purveyance of cold, hard thought, something primal and instinctive and so _sure_ of himself……

Mordred is still clutching Merlin’s dragon to his chest.

“It’ll protect me, da,” Mordred says, lower lip trembling. Oh, this sweet, innocent child. Arthur gently pries the figurine from unwilling fingers, smooths Mordred’s hair from his sweat-slick forehead.

“Mordred. What did I say about believing in superstitions like this?”

“That I’ll turn like grandma Ygraine and scream at everyone and scratch at doors.” Mordred recites dutifully. “But da, it isn’t superstition. It’s-“

He falters mid-speech. Arthur grits his teeth. _Do not raise your voice. You are not your father. Do not raise your voice_.

“Mordred. Magic isn’t real. You _know_ that.”

Silence, terse and mutinous. Arthur sighs, picking up Mordred’s dragon. He knows the boy is fond of it, but he can’t afford to leave things like that lying around, not when he knows terribly well just what obsessions will do to a person.

What obsessions will do to a household.

“I’m taking this, Mordred,” Arthur says, dusting off his trousers. He feels so, unbearably tired. A headache is brewing in the recesses of his brain, doubtless ready to emerge full-force next morning and browbeat Arthur’s head into submission. Sleep. A cold glass of water, then sleep.

Mordred doesn’t answer.

When Arthur gets up the next day, it’s only to find that the wooden dragon is missing from his bedside table. He sighs, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, and pretends not to have noticed.

*.*.*.*

Arthur slides open the lock-screen on his mobile and taps on the phonebook icon. M. Mordred, Morgana……

Merlin.

The six letters stare up at him in clear, bold font, so unlike the turmoil the man has wrought on Arthur over the past few days. Twenty-four missed calls, innumerable text messages that Arthur has either overlooked or deleted. Arthur just- can’t. He can’t deal with it all anymore.

Not when the mere mention of the name fills Arthur with a nameless terror that Merlin will turn out to be just like Ygraine.

Something deep in Arthur’s gut tells him that no, Merlin is not the same, that the man has a core of steel where others do not. Hell, Arthur knows just how ballsy Merlin can get, getting all up and close and personal to a stranger just because of a perceived slight against a child.

But Arthur isn’t a young child anymore, and he knows better than to put too much stock in gut-feelings.

_Delete._

He lets his finger hover over the icon for three heartbeats before pressing.

He has to do this, he tells himself. Because Arthur isn’t sure what he’ll end up doing if he picks up the phone, or start reading those undoubtedly worried, apologetic messages, blending into (probable) rage at Arthur’s non-responses……

No. Better cut it off now, before it’s too late.

_To be continued……_


	9. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited reconciliation. Secrets come out, the storm-clouds break, and both Arthur and Merlin are a little stronger for it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay- the half-way mark already! The things-start-to-get better part as promised. So many thanks go out to all who have read, kudosed and/or commented, because that's what keeps me wanting to go on writing and sharing!! (And my unerring obsession with Merthur as a couple, but, well, that's that.XD)  
> Hope you enjoy, and stay happy and safe, y'all. <3<3

One week of ignoring Merlin’s calls and messages, and they begin to thin off. On the eighth day, they cut off completely, and Arthur decides that Merlin must have given up on him too. He isn’t sure whether he ought to be relieved or hollow. To be honest, he thinks it’s a little bit of both.

And then Merlin shows up on his doorstep.

Arthur stares, dumbstruck, for a moment, before turning around and slamming the door shut. The door catches on something soft and decidedly squishy, and Arthur looks down to see Merlin’s tattered converse sneakers jammed into the gap in the door.

“I’m not-“ Arthur tapers off, because he isn’t sure what to say. _I’m not ready to talk to you?_ That is the truth, but it sounds like something a little girl would say to her estranged best friend, and Arthur doesn’t want to stoop that far just yet.

“Well,” Merlin says, cross, sticking his long pale-fingered hand through the gap as well, “believe me, it wasn’t easy for me to come all the way here either.”

Merlin forces the door open with surprising strength, helping himself inside. His black hair is a tousled mess, as if he’s spent a long time either ripping at it or running his fingers through it, and snowflakes dot the strands here and there. His pale skin is flushed from the cold, an atrocious red muffler wound about his neck, and his eyes are so startlingly blue that Arthur takes a step back despite himself.

“Look,” Arthur says, for lack of anything better to say. “You can’t just force yourself into my house.”

“And you can’t just decide to brush me off without so much as a good-bye.” There’s a muted conflict in Merlin’s eyes, a tempest Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever be privy too, and he has a fleeting feeling that whatever Merlin is worried about spans a lot further than just him and Arthur. “But I’m here anyway. Arthur, I promise; just listen to me, and if you want to kick me out after that all, then so be it. But I think I at least deserve a talk.”

And that’s what Arthur is worried about.

Because once he sits down with Merlin, and talks, Arthur isn’t quite sure he’d manage to push him away a second time.

But he can’t afford to. He can’t-

Because he remembers Ygraine, the woman who was once his mother, and he doesn’t dare make Mordred go through the same thing that he had.

Arthur’s traitorous, traitorous body yields, and Arthur wordlessly takes a step back so as to let Merlin in. Merlin shakes his head like a dog, sending little droplets of snow scudding across the neat polished plastic of Arthur’s shoe-rack.

“It wasn’t easy for you,” Arthur states, more of a question than anything else. Merlin peers up at him from where he’d been struggling out of his ratty sneakers, shadowed blue eyes stark against the spidery black of his lashes.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Your father isn’t very fond of my friends.” A wry smile dots Merlin’s lips, and Arthur guesses that the feud runs a lot deeper than that. “And my friends aren’t terribly fond of your father either.”

Arthur swallows; his tongue feels like sand-paper inside his mouth. Bloated and rubbery and unneeded.

“I’m not terribly fond of him either,” Arthur says.

“That’s what Mordred said too.” Merlin smiles, eyes crinkling a little near the edges. “And that’s why I’m back. So. Tea, Arthur? I like mine with a dollop of cream.”

*.*.*.*

Arthur brings Merlin tea.

English Breakfast, because for all that Morgana would rib him about how blasphemous it is to drink Breakfast tea at eleven at night, that’s all the paltry cupboards of his flat yielded and he doesn’t really have the energy to go searching for more. He’d added a dollop of cream, having found some left-over in the refrigerator, and Merlin hums around his mouthful, perched like a bird on the very edge of Arthur’s black leather couch.

It’s almost surreal, the stark white light of the overhead lamp, the neat cut lines of his flat, Merlin with his ripped jeans and loose jumper and ridiculous scarf. Mordred peeks around the door of his room, no doubt roused by the clatter of Arthur bumbling about in their kitchen. Arthur gives him a look. _Later_.

Mordred’s eyes widen as he takes in Merlin’s figure seated in the living room, and he nods, closing the door with a soft _thunk_.

Arthur swallows. “So.” His eyes roam everywhere in the room but near Merlin, fixating on the near-hypnotic pattern of cracks on the leather of the sofa. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yes. Arthur, that colleague I spoke about the other day- she’s an officer. A police officer, to be exact. She contacted me about a string of kidnappings, young children, and Mordred fit the profile. That was why I’d called you.”

“But you didn’t say.” Arthur bites off on what he’d been planning to say. Scenes from that day rush through his brain at breakneck speed. It isn’t easy to remember, all of the memories having been pressed through a drunken haze, but he remembers panic, sheer and simple, that irrational, racing drive that spoke of groundless primal terror.

That panic that had reminded him of his mother.

“You didn’t give me much time to talk.”

Merlin’s eyes turn shuttered, just for a split-second, but Arthur is well-versed in telling lies. It takes a liar to know one, they say. Hiding something. But.

Arthur wants to believe him.

Because Merlin, this impossible, ridiculous man- he is the first man who’s _intrigued_ Arthur in ages. Arthur knows better than anyone that some secrets are better left untold. He’s seen enough intrigue, enough secrets, enough horrors in his youth to be justifiably wary of them. But Merlin, with his ridiculous leaping judgements and hot temper and long fluttering lashes and surprising tenderness, with his tattoos and secrets- even now-

He makes Arthur want to _know_ , tugs him forward with a seductive promise of something large and electric and dangerous lurking just underneath his skin, soothes Arthur’s worries with the baseless tug in his gut that tells him for all his secrets he’d never hurt Arthur the way his mother had. He makes Arthur want to believe him, when Arthur knows full well Merlin is probably hiding a can of worms almost as large as his, and it’s _bloody unfair_.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. An old stress-induced habit of his. “And the figurine?”

“The old religion is a _religion_ , Arthur. It’s like how Christians lug about their crosses, or Budhists have their prayer beads. Would you attack anyone on the street just because you saw their cross-shaped earrings? Or decide not to talk to someone because they’re reading the Quran?”

Merlin, for all his worn edges, makes _sense_ , speaking clear and concise with eyes unclouded by any madness, and Arthur’s walls come crashing down in an instant. _Oh, gods, he’s so stupid_. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, but he knows instinctively that there’s no going back for him any longer.

Merlin smiles, a small, tentative thing. It’s nothing like his usual blaze of a disarming grin, and Arthur wants to reach out and smooth the worry lines off of his forehead, wants to make him laugh that full-bellied laugh Arthur hasn’t seen since Inigo stabbed the Count on that first date that feels like a lifetime ago. (And that ought to say something troubling about Arthur’s taste in men, but he doesn’t give a damn.)

“Alright?”

“Alright,” Arthur sighs out, still a little shaky.

“Good,” Merlin says, and his lips thin in mock-anger with an underlying sheen of pure, genuine hurt. Arthur winces. “Because I plan to have Words with you now, Arthur. And I shall require a full-blown apology before I deem myself fit to go back home.”

“Alright.” It seems like the only thing Arthur is able to say now. Merlin gives him another smile. “Coffee? Bread?”

Arthur blinks. “But I thought your shop was closed.”

“ _The Wizard’s Corner_ , yes.” Merlin shrugs, gauging Arthur’s expression at the mention of his magically-named shop. Still a sore point between them. It could only be, with a history like Arthur’s. “But, as they say- if you cannot go to the shop, bring the shop to you. Well, I brought the shop.”

*.*.*.*

Arthur squints at Merlin’s bag; he’s pretty sure there’s no way Merlin’s worn polyester satchel has yielded so many things to eat. There are sausage rolls, little bite-sized pastries shaped like squares and stars and hearts, gingerbread cookies, frosted chocolate Christmas trees. (‘Aren’t those a bit out of season?’ ‘Christmas is _never_ out of season, Arthur, haven’t you heard?) Arthur’s normally sleek coffee table is no veritably overflowing with goodies, and Arthur spares a half-hearted thought about whether he ought to invite Mordred over so they’d at least have a chance at making a dent in it.

The adrenaline of a little while ago has mostly worn off now, leaving Arthur in a pleasant, half-drunk haze. His limbs feel like they’re weighed down with cotton, except in a good way, almost like he’s wrapped up in his grandmother’s second-largest quilt. Not that Arthur’s grandmother was ever of the sort to hand out quilts. But, well, little boys can dream, and with Merlin stretched out beside him, all flushed cheeks and half-lidded blue eyes and soft, affectionate smile, Arthur could almost imagine he’s inside one of his fever-dreams.

Merlin’s tattoo, his secrets, the secrets Arthur are holding- it all congeals into a cold, bitter heap in a corner of Arthur’s heart; he firmly pushes it away. He’s done his part, he’s made as valiant an effort as any son of Uther Pendragon could have- as anyone who’d grown up with a raving mad-woman as a mother could have- but now that his walls have come crashing down, his emotions are like a dammed river set free, fast and unrelenting and terrifyingly massive.

He doesn’t think he could ever turn back now.

Merlin’s cool fingers nudge his, and Arthur suppresses the yelp at the sudden intrusion. Merlin half-smirks, giving him a knowing smile from under heavy lashes.

“Wha’?” is Arthur’s intelligent response.

“Yours.” Merlin pushes a little heart-shaped pastry into his hand. It’s a little crumbly along the edges- probably from being jostled about in Merlin’s still definitely too-small bag- and Arthur huffs at him.

“Don’t tell me you just brought me whatever you couldn’t sell anymore because it was too crumbled.”

Their usual easy banter (although that had been over the phone more often than not) feels a little stilted, strained, after all that has happened; and Arthur feels a little like a small boy on the ice, testing the waters.

“Ah, my nefarious plan has been found out. Now I must return to my evil lair to mope in peaceful solitude.”

Arthur chokes out a laugh despite himself. “Ridiculous man.”

“Nah, it’s actually because you’ve damned near broken my heart over these few days. Symbolism, you see?” Merlin’s teasing smile is good-natured, but there’s an underlying layer of _hurt_ in his words that Arthur can’t just deny.

All of a sudden, his behavior over the past few days seems so childish, so baseless, so _paranoid_. Arthur doesn’t blame himself- _once bitten, twice shy,_ they say, and he hasn’t been bitten so much as chewed out and spit out in so many sodding pieces- but, hell. He is an adult man, for goodness’ sake.

He could have done better. Should have.

“’m- sorry,” Arthur says, very carefully avoiding looking in Merlin’s direction. Merlin’s answering voice is a little rough.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I think I’ve forgiven you.”

Arthur risks a sideways glance. “Truly?”

“Yeah.” A heartbeat’s pause. “Though I still think you’re a prat.”

“Oi!”

Peaceful silence falls after that, the faint crinkling of vinyl the only noise that breaks the peace as Merlin stuffs Arthur full of buttery, chocolatey _paradise_. And then Arthur knows that he has to tell Merlin about Ygraine.

That he has to tell Merlin about his mother.

*.*.*.*

Ygraine had been young and beautiful once, Uther had said. Arthur doesn’t remember, really, he had been so, so young- but he does believe him. He has just enough traces of memory to be convinced, a laughing, slender woman hoisting baby Arthur up over her shoulder, a warm glow of a mother’s soft smile.

Ygraine had always called Arthur her little miracle. No wonder; Arthur’s pregnancy had been a particularly grueling one, and practically all the doctors in the hospital had thought he wouldn’t live to see his first daybreak. That’s where Nimueh came in, Uther had said.

Dark-haired, red-lipped, the picture-perfect femme fatale. Traveler, mystic, and most important of all- self-proclaimed miracle-worker.

She had saved young Arthur’s life- or, at least, made Ygraine absolutely sure of the fact- and then Ygraine was a believer, and she wouldn’t be persuaded edgewise no matter what Uther said.

Merlin’s face grows more and more serious as he listens to Arthur, long fingers drumming absentmindedly on the right wing of Arthur’s couch, and then when Arthur brings Nimueh up Merlin flinches as if struck.

“ _Shite._ ”

Arthur tenses. “You knew her?”

“Yeah. She was a colleague of mine, once.” Arthur’s biting his lip, and Merlin gives him a firm look, shaking his head. “Emphasis on _once_. She wanted the golden age of the old ways back, wanted to go around showing people, wanted to make people _believe_ \- she broke a boatload of our own rules, went into hiding a little while after. I had no idea she’d been at it for so long.” Arthur recognizes that shuttered look that steals into Merlin’s eyes, guilt and horrified realization and something else. Arthur reaches out and squeezes Merlin’s hand, once.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Merlin breathes, a little rough, nods. “I’m ready to listen now.”

It had been a short stretch of peace after that. Or so Arthur had heard. And then came Kay.

Kay’s pregnancy was a rocky one, too- perhaps it had been a problem of Ygraine’s, or perhaps Uther was to blame. But Ygraine began to near _live_ in the hospital as Kay grew larger, and by the time the babe arrived there had been so much blood the doctors had feared for Ygraine’s very life.

Kay died a short while after, a tiny little life that hadn’t even seen the proper light of day. But there was no Nimueh to save him that time around, no miracle to bring him back.

And Ygraine refused to accept it.

“She scoured all the books on druidic lore she could find,” Arthur recites, almost feeling as if he’s watching himself from a distance. His neck feels scratchy, his voice like something out of a science fiction film. “And then moved onto all things occult. And delved into- darker things.”

Arthur remembers those young days he had come home only to find his mother hunched over some carcass of an animal, some mutilated skull. Some days it was the dolls. They were the worst; Arthur felt as if those soulless button eyes were following him about, tracking him through the mansion, hiding around every corner. And then Uther had had her _confined_ to her room, and that was the end of that.

Until the screams started, and the scratching. Until Uther finally did the unspeakable and put his former love to rest once and for all.

Merlin hisses in sympathetic pain, blunt nails digging painfully into the flesh of Arthur’s palm. “Arthur. Oh, Arthur. That- that’s forbidden in druidic circles, too. Things that _dark_ -“ He chokes, biting back tears. “That your _mother_ -“

Arthur shakes his head, not ready to speak further about it, not yet. This is the furthest he has ever bared his heart to anyone, save Gwaine and Leon, who had both cried with him and then stuffed him with bad beer and cheap potato chips afterwards. It’s different, somehow, more emotional, more fragile, more _intense_ , and he just- can’t.

Not yet.

Merlin nods, eyes soft, and draws a little ways back.

“I promise I’m not secretly practicing Satanic rituals at home.”

Arthur chokes out something halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I know,” he says. “You aren’t sneaky enough.”

“Oh, you might be surprised.” Merlin leans back into Arthur’s couch, eyes boring into Arthur’s. Arthur feels a little tender, a little sore, and suddenly, unbearably tired. All the chocolate he’s eaten has soured in his mouth, and he just stares at Merlin, drawing a little of the stuffy heated air of his flat into his nose, letting it out in a puff between aching teeth.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, sincere. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this.” There’s a lingering sheen of guilt in his eyes, and Arthur knows, the way he knows when Mordred’s had a horrible day at daycare and simply isn’t telling him about it, that Merlin has a lot he isn’t telling him, at least as much secrets as Arthur’s got left.

_Well, to shite with it_. Arthur is just so tired. So tired of guessing and double-guessing. So tired of trying to toe the line.

He gives Merlin a half-shouldered shrug. “Well. You deserved it.”

Merlin huffs out a breath. “Maybe.” Then he turns serious again. “Arthur. I know you probably won’t feel comfortable about this, but- you need to be careful about your father.”

Arthur blinks at him. “Careful?”

“Yes.” A pause. “And make sure Mordred’s safe.”

Arthur feels as if a pail of cold water has been dunked over his head. “Merlin. He’s my _father._ ”

“And a dangerous man.”

Arthur bites his lip. Arthur knows better than anyone how dangerous a man his father can be, how youth was never a mitigating factor in his particular brand of discipline. But. _But_.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, and Merlin’s mouth curves up into a warm smile. Something like a warm candlelit glow after a storm. And it is that, isn’t it? The past few days have been a veritable storm for them both, and it has broken.

Arthur would rather like to think they’ve both come out the stronger for it.

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Next chapter: a large heaping of fluff with a little dollop of sinister foreshadowing.*  
> Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome, and please do let me know if you find any gaping plot holes so I can go patch them up!! :)


	10. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff galore! It's a few days filled with sweetness for our boys. Christmas rolls around, and Mordred manages to drag Arthur along to surprise Merlin at his bakery. Impromptu baking lessons and almost-kisses ensue. But then Uther summons Arthur to a meal......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the fluff as promised! Though it may be more of a little reprieve before shite goes down...... *cackles evilly* Many thanks go out to all who have read, commented, bookmarked and/or kudosed this story so far, and I sincerely hope this story has been able to provide you all with a modicum of comfort. <3<3  
> Not so sure if I'm terribly happy about this chapter, but I figured I ought to stop agonizing over it and just post, so here it is. Though I sincerely do hope it isn't too terrible! :O  
> A little trigger warning for mention of domestic abuse- nothing explicit, but if it's a triggering point for you, you may want to tread carefully.

Mordred’s dragon figurine has gained a fluffy Santa hat overnight. It’s red and knitted (knitted! How do you even find yarn fine enough to make something tiny enough to fit a toy dragon?) and so aggressively Christmassy that Arthur has no trouble as to divulging the source.

“It’s almost like it’s proclaiming the holidays at the top of his lungs.” Arthur shakes his head, leaning a little over his mobile. Merlin keeps insisting on sending him images in all these ridiculous fonts, and really, it isn’t that Arthur is getting old, it’s just that this calligraphy, however artistic it may be, is most certainly not meant to be _read_ ……

“Christmas is only five days away, after all,” Mordred says sagely from his spot at the floor. “Maybe it’s just worried people will forget.”

He’s toying with a little piece of crystal Merlin has brought around- he’s gone all adorably new-age after their big meltdown a week or so ago; and while Arthur isn’t really comfortable with all these druidic baubles lying around his flat, Merlin had been so shyly anticipating that first time, all fluttering lashes and tentative fingers, and Arthur hadn’t had the heart to say no.

And there’s the fact that he doesn’t really seem to mind too much when it’s Merlin doing the giving, but, well, that’s for Arthur and Arthur alone to know.

Arthur settles for a good-natured grumble. “As if we could ever forget, with all those shops blaring blasted carols out at top volume. I can’t pass a single street without being bombarded by _Jingle Bell._ ”

“I know you don’t really mind too much, da,” Mordred smiles happily, sidling over towards the couch where he’s sitting and leaning against his legs. “You even have a secret Christmas playlist.”

“That Merlin made, _by force_ , if I may add.” Arthur narrows his eyes in mock suspicion. “And whoever told you that?”

“I found out by myself?” Mordred tries, all innocent blue eyes and clasped hands. It’s obvious to anyone with enough motivation to find out that Mordred has been spending lots of time with Merlin; bits and pieces of him are rubbing off, from things as small and trivial as Christmas garments for his dragon to things as striking as that wide-eyed look that says snow wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Once, Arthur thinks he may have been concerned. Now, the image of those two conspiring against him- one tall and lithe, one toddling and pudgy in that ways all babies are, both equally blue-eyed and tousle-haired- brings a smile to his lips.

“Try again,” he says, nudging Mordred in the ribs. “I’m not _that_ gullible.”

“He’s teaching me- herbal- things,” is the excuse Mordred settles for.

“And what have you learned?”

“Willow bark for infections,” Mordred replies, prompt. Arthur laughs. “I shouldn’t have let you read all those Warriors books. It’s alright, Mordred. I’m not angry that you- talked to Merlin, without me. He told me you made him make up with me.”

And he is surprised to find his words are true.

Mordred peers up at him, eyes wide and tentative. “Really? You aren’t angry?”

“No.” Arthur runs a hand through Mordred’s disheveled locks, relishing in the soft feathery feel of it. “But Mordred- you have to remember what I told you, alright? You might end up opening yourself up to someone who might hurt you.”

“Don’t talk to strangers.” Mordred nods, dutifully, Then, a slight, hopeful addition: “But Merlin isn’t a stranger anymore, right? I can go play with him anytime?”

Arthur huffs out a small breath. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I rather think that you may.”

*.*.*.*

Christmas rolls around with such a minimal amount of bustle that Arthur almost feels cheated.

Arthur drags himself through all his usual Christmas events, including but not limited to the gang’s Christmas pub crawl, after which he’d been forced to eat porridge for a solid day, and him and Mordred’s customary Christmas eve-eve tree decoration.

Merlin drops by from time to time bearing sweets and other goods, but he looks wan and stretched-out, dark circles bruising the undersides of his eyes. It’s a striking look on him somehow, the shadows bringing out the electric brightness of his eyes, but it isn’t a look Arthur fancies on him.

“You need to rest,” Arthur groans, exasperated. “And I’m telling you this as a human resources executive. A productivity expert. Are people ordering gingerbread houses by the batch or something?”

“Nah,” Merlin shakes his head, smiling as he nuzzles Arthur’s neck. It’s a new degree of intimacy they’ve only reached a mere few days ago, and there’s something heartbreakingly tender about it that makes Arthur dread to put his foot in his mouth and break it. “I’m doing some consulting work, is all.”

“Consulting?”

“Yes. I told you about that colleague of mine- Morgause- the police officer? I sometimes get called out on the more occult cases, because- you know. I’ve had a unique upbringing.”

“You’re a bloody new-ager, is what,” Arthur says, firmly pushing the image of Ygraine that rises unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He’s sworn he’d get over this, and he would, he _would_. “The missing children cases still going bad?”

“Unfortunately.” Merlin’s eyes go shuttered the way they do when he’s tired, stressed, angry, or all three. There’s a steel-edge to his voice that Arthur wouldn’t fancy himself the receiving edge of; for someone so scrawny-looking (though Arthur knows that there’s a deceptively wiry layer of strength lying under all that) Merlin can be surprisingly terrifying.

The slightest hint of ozone, that feeling of something _more_ that Arthur swears follows him……

“Arthur, Mordred-“

“I know.” Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand. “I’ll be careful. I promised.”

*.*.*.*

Arthur still hasn’t made up his mind whether he’d spend Christmas with Merlin or not when Christmas day dawns early and bright.

It’s a beautiful day, clear and bright with a frosting of snow left over from the huge downpour the day before, sky a deep robin’s egg blue. Mordred jumps into his bed just after daybreak, a veritable ball of buzzing energy, and plies Arthur with burnt pancakes and instant hot chocolate before half-dragging him all the way to Merlin’s bakery.

“I can’t, Mordred,” Arthur protests, as his little son drags him along with a devious combination of surprising strength and wide, begging eyes. “Heaven knows I’d be upset enough if someone just barged into my office at work. I can’t just _do_ something like that to someone else.”

“You won’t be embarrassing Merlin, da,” Mordred says, with a nod that Arthur is sure the little child sniped right off of Merlin. _A horrible influence indeed_. Mordred is wild-haired and bright-eyed and smiling wide and cheeky, and Arthur doesn’t think he’s seen him this exuberant since Sophia left so many years ago.

He loves it.

So he lets himself be dragged along, mock-grumbling and griping, reasoning that Merlin works alone and that he’d probably have no qualms sending him back home if he isn’t welcome. For all that Merlin may look unassuming at first glance, he’s proven himself to have a formidable temper, and Arthur isn’t embarrassed to admit he isn’t someone he’d really like to cross without good reason.

_The Wizard’s Corner_ is as cozy and ramshackle under wintry sunlight as it had been under the warm glow of the street-lamps.

The faded yellow and red of the façade has gained an endearingly worn air in the sun, and a brisk breeze rattles the handmade wooden sign hanging from the brass dragon-head bar. The flowers have wilted from the cold, but what little shrubbery Merlin keeps up front is still sprightly and green, bouncing a little from where Arthur and Merlin’s passing jostles it up. Some evergreens they are, Arthur notes appreciatively, as he tugs Mordred along to the door.

The sign is turned to _open_. Arthur pauses, wondering if he should knock, and proceeds in.

Merlin’s head pops out from the doorway leading to the kitchen at the jangle of the bells, and then his whole countenance blooms into a wide, infectious smile. “Arthur! Mordred! What brings you here?”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. He’s always hated being the one more invested in a relationship, hated that feeling of being knocked off his feet, but with Merlin- shite, he doesn’t care, because the way flour smudges across his cheekbones and flecks a little on his lips should be nothing short of illegal. Deft fingers come up to brush his fringe out of his eyes, and Merlin’s eyes crinkle, those distinctive half-moons leading into good-natured laugh lines.

Mordred nudges him, grin bordering on smirking, and Arthur stumbles, flushing a little. “This little one dragged me all the way here,” he says by way of an excuse. Mordred nudges him again; Arthur looks up to find the faintest blush dusting Merlin’s high cheekbones. He’s wearing a worn navy jumper today. It sets off his eyes. (Which is most definitely not the sort of thing Arthur ought to be noticing.)

“I thought you were- busy,” Merlin says, blinking. _Oh_.

“I thought _you_ were busy,” Arthur replies, feeling a little foolish. That had actually been a large part of why he’d refrained from contacting Merlin with Christmas plans: he’d thought Merlin would want to spend the day with family and friends, for one; and he’d figured Merlin deserved some rest, what with how much consulting work he’d been doing of late.

“Wait- does that mean you didn’t actually have anything to do?”

“Now it just makes me sound lazy if you put it that way,” Arthur protests. Merlin leans against the door-frame, collapsing into a fit of laughter. He wipes a tiny tear from the corner of his eyes.

“That’s ridiculous,” he gasps, “because that’s exactly why I hadn’t contacted you either.”

A snort, another choked chuckle, and then Arthur is following Merlin right into his laugh. It’s ridiculous, really; but there’s a warmth that’s spreading from his gut all the way to the tips of his very toes, and Arthur feels absurdly happy- almost as if Mordred and Merlin are the only ones tethering him to reality, and he might just float away if he were to let go.

Merlin is the first to recover, clapping his hands together with a pleased smile. “Well, that’s settled, then. You said you didn’t have any urgent business?”

“Hells, no. I’d had a date with my television and a carton of Mordred’s milk, but-“

“Good,” Merlin grins. “How good are you at baking?”

*.*.*.*

Merlin’s impromptu baking lesson dissolves into chaos before long.

Arthur, for all his talents, is most certainly not a good cook, as had been proven when he’d been forced to stay after class for every single one of his home economy courses back in grade school. The teacher had been shocked that it was possible to put liquid soup on fire, back then, and Merlin is just as shocked, if not more, when Arthur manages to set his entire batch of liquid batter aflame.

It burns orange and red and yellow for a split second before it goes out in a bang, barely even leaving any smoke behind. Arthur blinks, a little disconcerted.

“Strange,” he says. “Strange, but good, I suppose? I don’t think you would have quite appreciated my setting your livelihood burning.”

Merlin laughs, slipping him a quick, guilty look from under his lashes. “Well, you would have paid me back, wouldn’t you?”

“I thought everything wasn’t solved by chucking money at it,” Arthur says, quoting Merlin of not-so-long-ago. Merlin hums, pressing a little closer.

“Well, I might make a little exception just for a certain golden prat……”

Mordred generally just runs about making a nuisance of himself. He stuffs himself sick on Merlin’s special gingerbread cookies, and when he comes around to give Arthur a hug, his stomach is all but popping out of his waist, and his breath smells like sugar and mint and ginger.

Arthur pats his head, helplessly fond, and holds him close while he chatters on about cookies shaped like dragons and houses made of chocolate.

It’s like the holiday he never had.

The morning comes to an end with Arthur standing in front of a cutting board, rolling pin in hand, Merin’s warm breath ghosting over his neck. Merlin’s a tight line of warmth against his back, and _fuck_ , Arthur isn’t going to be able to concentrate on rolling dough for much longer if Merlin keeps this up. A bony hip digs into his lower back, and Merlin adjusts his grip on the pin, admonishing him about how he isn’t going to war with the pin, _what has it ever done to him_?

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, feeling a little silly and very drunk. “It did refuse to cooperate with me, though. Quite vehemently.”

“That’s no reason to be mean to it,” Merlin says, eyes glittering with laughter. There’s a smudge of flour on the tip of his nose.

Arthur leans the slightest bit closer, holds his breath. It’s like a moment frozen in time, surprisingly intimate. Just another inch, and he could kiss. One movement of his hand, and he could _touch_.

Merlin’s eyes are impossible blue against the dark backdrop of his lashes, and if Arthur concentrates, he thinks he could see the flecks of gold swimming in those depths. It suits Merlin, he thinks. Enigmatic. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And now he’s just being soppy.

Arthur lifts his hand before he knows it, brushes it against Merlin’s nose. It’s surprisingly warm, and flour falls from it in a small cascade of white, dissipating in a puff in the air. Arthur feels the pounding of blood in his veins, hears the smallest hitch in Merlin’s breath.

With a swallowed gasp, Merlin leans forward and brushes his lip against Arthur’s.

It’s short and chaste and sweet, because they’re both responsible enough not to delve into anything further with a child in the next room. But they draw back and look at each other, really _look_ , ridiculous, soppy smiles adorning their faces, and━

It’s perfect.

*.*.*.*

It’s a lazy indulgent day after that.

Merlin patters about in the kitchen, whipping up all sorts of sweet hearty concoctions, and Mordred is pasted to the other man’s side, chattering away in a hushed voice. Merlin is heartbreakingly sweet with the boy, ruffling a quick hand through his hair when he thinks Mordred isn’t looking, and Arthur turns away because Merlin being good with children as well is a little too much on his heart today.

The employees seem to have decided to spare him just for once, no-one having made a mistake horrifying enough for Arthur to be summoned all the way back to HQ’s, and Arthur is just about to relax-

When his phone chimes.

He checks the sender, and freezes.

All these years- all of these years, and Arthur has grown into himself, grown into a man he wouldn’t be embarrassed of- but seeing that name never fails to make him go rigid, never fails to remind him of day after day after day of grueling, painful _discipline_.

“What is it?” Merlin asks from behind him, resting a warm hand on Arthur’s neck. Arthur thinks he ought to be terrified, how fast he’s come to trust Merlin, how fast he’s come to rely on him. The slightest touch, and it feels like an anchor, calming him, steadying him.

Arthur takes a deep breath.

“It’s my father,” he says. “And he’s just asked me to lunch next week.”

_To be continued……_


	11. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes to that dreaded lunch with his father. What he does there ends up surprising himself.   
> Also served with a large dollop of Arthur-angst and beautiful cuddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are still Wednesdays and Saturdays, so look out for new chapters then! Though I've been working on this in my free time nowadays, so maybe a surprise update in-between too......

Uther summons Arthur to one of his usual haunts. _The Avalon_ is a large, imposing building, its stark marble walls polished to a sheen, decoration toned down to a minimum. When Arthur was younger, he used to feel as if malevolent spirits lived in the deep crevasses dug into the walls, as if a permeating coldness rested between the seams of the immaculately-cut stones that made up the floor. Those fears feel ridiculous, now; a man of twenty-six, standing before the building in clear daylight. Still, there’s a lingering feeling of dread that slows his footsteps, drag his feet.

His father never calls him when there isn’t an announcement to make. The last one- when had the last one been? It must have been before Morgana stormed out to live with Leon, in the least. That makes it a year or more.

A straight-backed man with hair slicked back to his scalp takes Arthur’s name and leads him to his reserved seat. Arthur eyes the man’s name-tag, dull shined brass graven with black letters reminiscent of a typewriter. GEORGE, it reads. He’s almost frighteningly competent, drawing Arthur’s chair back with hardly a noise.

Uther looks up from where he had been reading a newspaper. One of his father’s usual intimidation tactics, Arthur knows; people are oft wrong-footed when they find the other does not deem to acknowledge them- and a newspaper is a good camouflage as any. Arthur would bet his left foot that his father had been aware of his arrival from the moment he’d stepped foot in the restaurant.

“Take a seat,” he says, businesslike. He looks the same as he had a year ago- close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes like chips of ice. His movements are imbued with the languid grace of a powerful man who knows the world will reshape itself to his whim, if he only tries hard enough.

Arthur sits. “You summoned me,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. They’ve never been strong on pleasantries. Uther hums, flipping almost nonchalantly through the gold-embossed menu.

“I did.”

Arthur is under no illusions that Uther is actually wondering what to order. If his father hasn’t changed- and it seemed he hasn’t- he’s already pre-ordered his full course for the day, and Arthur’s to boot. Arthur’s suspicions are confirmed when yet another silent waitress sidles up and drops a wide plate with a dollop of something that looks suspiciously like ground tomato in it in front of them both.

Arthur bites his lip. “May I ask why that was?”

Uther raises a brow; Arthur is presuming a lot more than he would ever have dared before. His and his father’s relationship has always been a strained one, polite but distant, like a dance that has been well-choreographed over the years. But being with Merlin has changed him, somehow, and Arthur finds himself wanting something different. Something _more_.

He finds himself wanting to do more than simply _understand_ his father.

Uther tilts his head, gazing at him as if he’s some new contraption he can’t quite make sense of. Arthur feels like something is crawling down his spine, and clenches his teeth: he refuses to feel that way about his own father. But it’s different somehow from Merlin’s long, scrutinizing looks, those looks that make Arthur feel as if his layers are being peeled back somehow, laid bare for Merlin to see. Those are disconcerting but somehow freeing too, as if a large burden is being taken off of him, the need for subterfuge and secrets peeling away, bit by bit. But his father wields his gaze like a scalpel, clinical, businesslike, _cold_.

It’s never struck Arthur how _cold_ his father really is.

“Eat,” Uther says, smoothing his napkin over an immaculately-pressed suit. “Then we’ll talk.”

.

Once their table is all cleared away, and Arthur is adequately stuffed with poached duck and filleted salmon and all sorts of dainty absurdities, Uther finally gets down to business.

“That man- _Mer_ lin, you’ve been meeting.”

Uther’s lip is curled up in distaste, and a familiar crease has surfaced between his stern brows. A shiver runs up Arthur’s spine.

“I hadn’t been aware you’d been keeping tabs on me, father.” Arthur hadn’t told anyone of his relationship with Merlin, to begin with. And he’s well aware that Morgana would rather stick her heel in her mouth rather than go to Uther with news like this. He still doesn’t know what exactly drove the final wedge between his father and half-sister, but whatever it was was final. Morgana still doesn’t talk to Uther to this day.

Uther gives a half-shrug, elegant. “I do like to know what all my children are up to. But that’s not important. What is important that this Emrys is a very dangerous man. You’d do well to stay away from him.”

The shiver turns into a full-blown stab of dread. First Merlin, calling him out of the blue about Mordred- and now Uther, warning him out of the blue about _Merlin._ Arthur can’t help but feel that there’s a giant puzzle taking shape here, just out of his reach, and that he isn’t a part of it.

“He hasn’t harmed me yet, father,” Arthur says, the mildest comeback he can manage.

“You don’t know what he has done. What he is capable of doing.”

“And you know this? Does he have any criminal records I haven’t been aware of? I have been frequenting his bakery rather often, after all.”

Arthur can tell that Uther hasn’t bought that little excuse he tacked onto the end whatsoever. His father’s eyes grow a little more distant, shuttered, cool.

“Not _yet_. But I have ways of knowing…… things.”

Uther and Merlin, all part of the same mystery. Arthur is very good at knowing when secrets are being kept from him- an unfortunate side-effect of holding his secrets close to his heart himself- but it’s different somehow, with Uther. Arthur has come to terms with Merlin, because he’s felt the sincerity beneath it all, hears whispered _I won’t hurt you_ ’s and _I’m sorry_ ’s in every absent hand-brush Merlin doesn’t think he notices. Hell, Mordred trusts Merlin, and Arthur knows enough to give Mordred’s instincts more than their fair share of credit.

But it’s like Arthur is seeing a whole new side of his father, now, calculating, cruel, fueled by a strange distant spark of paranoia and _hatred_ , and it’s very nearly terrifying.

“And he is-?”

“A freak of nature,” Uther bites out, and from the way he flinches, barely-perceptible but still _there_ , Arthur suspects it’s something he hadn’t meant to let slip.

And then Arthur thinks of Merlin, his wide good-natured grins and crinkling eyes, his cheerful humming and witty cheer, his tenderness with Mordred, and something rushes up in him hot and fierce and reckless.

For the first time in his life, he looks his father in the eye and says:

“No.”

Uther draws back, smooth as a snake, and it’s as if Arthur is looking at a stranger instead of his own father. “What did you say?”

Arthur gulps, forces down the tremor in his hands. “No, I said I won’t stay away from him.”

“You defy me.”

Arthur knows that tone. It’s the tone before Uther would declare it time for _discipline_ , that tone dripping with cold rage and something more horrifying, indescribable. Arthur had always thought he understood his father; that he was a strong man broken but not bent, driven harsh by grief and regret. But now he isn’t so sure anymore.

“Yes,” he says, and his father’s hand strays to the heavy goblet-shaped crystal concoction to the right, tendons bulging from old papery skin. Arthur flinches but stands his ground, and Uther withdraws his hand.

Uther’s face is utterly emotionless as he intones, as if passing a sentence:

“I have warned you.”

“You have,” Arthur says. He gets up, the plush carpet of the restaurant muting any natural scraping sounds that might have broken out. Arthur _hates_ it. All of a sudden, he hates the sharp inhuman décor of the restaurant, the expressionless waiters, the clear glittering light of the crystal glasses. The fire from a little while ago still pulses through his veins, making him feel eighteen and reckless and invincible. “Goodbye, father,” he says, and turns on his heels.

The last thing he sees is the pale light of rage on his father’s face.

*.*.*.*

Arthur breaks down three avenues down.

It’s all good and nice to be all revolutionary and defiant, but it’s the first time Arthur has ever dared to go against his father like this, and the resulting shocks set his breathing uneven and his hands trembling. _Fuck_ , he’s a mess, isn’t he? He’s a grown man, for goodness’ sake; he shouldn’t have been so- so-

Weak.

All these secrets, the vague feeling of dread he gets from his father, Merlin, tattoos, triskelions, all these threats and warnings…… it’s just too _much_ , and Arthur wants to break down and sob for an hour and help himself to a gigantic pint of ale.

Shite, he doesn’t think he could even see Mordred at this state. He loves Mordred with everything he has, but he wants to be strong for him, a pinnacle of strength he can rely on no matter what, and he isn’t about to break down in front of his child like a little boy. He _isn’t_.

Before he knows it, Arthur is pulling out his mobile and dialing Merlin’s number.

*.*.*.*

Merlin tuts like a mother hen and swaddles him in blankets as soon as he gets sight of him, no matter that it’s the _middle of the bloody street_. Arthur protests, grumbling and twisting and generally making a nuisance of himself, but Merlin turns out to be surprisingly strong (which may or may not have had a sliver of heat running down Arthur’s spine) and manhandles him into the most hideous reindeer blanket he’s ever set his eyes on. It’s red. And green. And has _fur_.

It’s a wonder, just how much things Merlin’s tiny satchel seems to be able to contain. Merlin ought to patent it; Arthur would most definitely consider equipping every single Pendragon employee with one.

“Really, Arthur,” Merlin tuts, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around Arthur’s shoulders. He feels like a five-year-old child being fussed over by his mother, and if he’s to be completely honest with himself, it actually feels rather good. Reassuring. “You don’t get to complain. What _were_ you thinking, running out of a restaurant without your jacket like that?”

Arthur bites his lip. Now that the initial spark has died down, he feels the December chill down to his bones. Still, he’s a little too embarrassed and a little too proud to actually say anything about it.

“It was a matter of dignity,” is what he settles on. Merlin laughs, short but clear, eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Ah, yes,” he nods sagely, raising a brow. “I’ve heard how detrimental jackets can be to dignity…...”

And then Arthur absolutely _has_ to smack him in the arm for that.

*.*.*.*

Arthur is bundled into Merlin’s boxy old Toyota and wheeled all the way to the bakery. Merlin’s car is blue and battered and smells like Merlin, a strange heady combination of sugar and chocolate and smoke. It rumbles and hisses dangerously a few times on the way, but Arthur manages to make it all the way to the _Corner_ with all body parts intact.

Merlin wastes no time in wrapping Arthur up in no less than three throw blankets, two layers of socks, and Merlin’s best knit beanie, which is a little tight around the forehead and flops this way and that whenever Arthur turns his head. The cold has caught up with Arthur, now, and he rubs at his reddened nose as discreetly as he can and coughs a little into the floor.

Merlin gives him a knowing look and pushes a cup of steaming hot chocolate into his hand.

“I thought it wasn’t a café,” Arthur says, because he isn’t really ready to talk. Merlin, shrewd as ever, is having none of it.

“It isn’t, but hot chocolate is the only thing that keeps me hale and functioning on long winter nights. Now, Arthur: tell me. Why on earth did you call me, shivering, without your coat, in the middle of a _road_ of all things?”

“It was my lunch, with my father.” Arthur picks a little at the edge of Merlin’s frayed throw couch, not really wanting to talk but desperately needing someone to listen.

“Ah.” Merlin nudges Arthur a little to the side, sliding into the spot beside him. Skinny as he is, Merlin warms the air beside Arthur instantly; he settles, tight and comfortable, a reassuring line of het at his flank. He turns to peer up at Arthur from between spidery lashes. “Will you be angry at me if I told you I commiserate? We’re not really……”

“On the best of terms, yeah.” Arthur pushes some stray hair from his forehead. It’s giving him a headache, all this warnings business, the way how Merlin and his father seem to have plenty going on between them for all that he’s sure they’ve never even _met_. Arthur hates not knowing things. But he’s too tired to go hounding about. “He said so too.”

“Oh.” Merlin stiffens a little. “Arthur, I wouldn’t ask you to fight your father on my behalf. I won’t lie to you and say that I’m fond of him, but……”

“He said _things_.” Arthur doesn’t tell Merlin about how strange and distant his father had seemed, how the mere mention of Merlin had brought out a little of that terrifying _other_ in his father that Arthur had thought long gone.

“Bet it wasn’t much worse than what I’d gotten before,” Merlin smiles, a clear effort to cheer Arthur up. “Dollop-headed twat, a certain blond prat once called me-“

A snort is forced out of Arthur despite himself. He remembers that night so many days ago- less than a month, really, but it feels like an eternity. That fateful day he’d met Merlin, that fateful day Merlin had been hot-headed and righteous enough to pick a fight with him. Back then, he’d been unbelievably angry; now, he’s the tiniest bit glad that it happened after all.

“You gave as good as you got, Merlin; don’t go about pretending to be a wilting violet!”

“I live to please,” Merlin hums, cheeky as you please. Still, there’s the faintest hint of shuttered shadow in his eyes, and he turns again towards Arthur, insistent. “Still, Arthur, don’t think you can turn the subject like this. I need to know. You need to talk to someone. Did you- did you fight with your father?”

“Bloody well did. I walked out on him.” Arthur gives an involuntary shiver at that. He defied his father. He defied his father. He’s bloody terrified, and he hates himself for it.

“Shhhh.” Merlin runs a soft hand through Arthur’s hair, and Arthur snuggles in to the bony curve of Merlin’s shoulder, too worn out to be embarrassed for all that it isn’t even three o’clock yet. Merlin’s fingers pause for a heartbeat, and then Merlin’s voice comes from above him:

“I think that this makes me a horrible person,” he says, “But I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

“That you cared enough about me to- that you- believed in me.”

There’s a small tremor in Merlin’s voice. Guilt. Arthur waits to see if Merlin tacks anything further on than that, but he doesn’t, and they fall into a quiet embrace that feels like the quiet before the storm.

Arthur stays that way for a long time, nestled in the warmth of Merlin, of the Wizard’s Corner, breathing in the scent of sugar and flour and well-worn cedar.

_To be continued……_


	12. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is walking on clouds- until Mordred calls for help, and he finds that he must reveal himself if he is to protect Arthur and Mordred both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in a bit of a glomp recently, where everything I write looks like pure rubbish...... and, well, I do know that I'm an amateur with a long way to go, but it hasn't been easy :O Not too sure about this chapter, either, but it IS a magic reveal of sorts, which should work in its favor.  
> Hope you've all managed to keep yourselves out of these Coronavirus blues :( That said- please enjoy!

Merlin is walking on clouds.

Well, they’re not really that solid, as far as metaphorical clouds go, riddled with holes and pitfalls of the secrets Merlin is keeping and Uther Pendragon and the children who are still vanishing and a million other things, but- Arthur chose him over his father.

Arthur chose him over his father, and it’s a strange feeling, all this unbearable guilt and happiness rolled into one. Arthur had told him about his meeting with his father in detail, later, once he had calmed down. Uther had told Arthur to stay away from him, Arthur had said. And he’d said _no_. Arthur really is nothing like his father, bent but not broken, having managed to forge a new corner in the world for him and Mordred despite everything life had thrown at him.

But that brings up the matter of the guilt. Merlin still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell Arthur who he really is.

Merlin has managed to work little bits and pieces into their everyday talks, about how he knows a little about herbal remedies, about how he- _consults_ on occult affairs, for lack of a better word. Arthur takes it all in stride, even going far enough to tease Merlin about his affiance to sparkling things (they’re crystals, Arthur, not- no, I am not a bloody crow!)- and when Arthur is like that, all wide, loose smile and ruffled hair and glittering eyes, Merlin wants to tell Arthur so badly it actually aches. His magic skitters and jumps under his skin, as eager to touch as he is, yearning to reach forward, sweep its tendrils over Arthur’s smooth unbroken skin, to furl itself around Arthur’s strong forearms and shapely wrists.

But then Merlin imagines Arthur’s face shuttered in horror, betrayal splitting that unexpectedly gentle countenance, and the words shrivel and die in his throat.

The worst nights are when Merlin dreams of Arthur standing side-by-side with Uther, laughing as he watches Merlin burn. Those days, he wakes with a start and a scream bitten off in his throat, and more often than not his water-glass lies shattered on his bedside table.

“Da doesn’t really like Grandfather, you know,” Mordred says one day, on one of their secret magic lessons. Mordred is a terrifyingly capable youngster, but he still has much left to learn. Merlin reaches out with his magic, giving the wonky blue flame on Mordred’s palms a little nudge. It perks up like an excited puppy, gently fading into a warm, merry gold.

Merlin knows very well whom exactly Mordred is referring to, but he’s not ready to talk about that yet. He hums noncommittally. “Your grandfather.”

Mordred snorts. “You’re even worse at lying than da. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I do.” Merlin sighs, letting a few golden sparks dance between his splayed fingers. It’s an old habit of his, letting himself feel his magic skittering over his fingers, calming his frayed nerves. “But, Mordred-“

“He hasn’t said anything to me. About you. But he likes you, and I think-“

What is it that Mordred had been planning to say? _I think he might take your side, if it comes down to it?_ Arthur already has, once, and Merlin doesn’t think he could shoulder the guilt if Arthur were to do it again.

“Now, Mordred, what did I say about letting your magic flow the way it ought to?”

It’s a blatant evasion, and though Mordred looks at him, a disturbingly knowing expression dusting his face, he doesn’t call Merlin out on it.

*.*.*.*

It’s quiet, disturbingly so.

It’s almost as if Uther is giving himself a break after the initial mass kidnappings, and there hasn’t been any news of kidnappings- even aborted ones- over the past few weeks or so. Merlin would like to believe that the measures he took happened to be good enough, that Uther has simply turned tail and given up, but he knows the man far better than that. His hatred for all this magic is nothing short of maniacal- though now that he knows Arthur’s history, he might understand a little of what lies under, a _little_ \- and Merlin can’t help the nervous clench in his gut.

He pesters Mordred about the dragon figurine until the normally mild-mannered boy snaps, exasperatedly shoving the little figurine on its length of twine towards Merlin. Merlin has imbued it with every single protection spell he knows, which is quite considerable, if he may say so, and added an alarm or sorts to boot. Mordred just need call him, and he can be there in an instant.

It’s favoritism, he knows; but what he also knows is that Arthur will be devastated, destroyed, should Mordred be taken out of his life, and he’d rather gut himself of his magic than be responsible for something like that.

Days pass, quiet and surprisingly soft.

Arthur takes him out to the movies. Merlin calls him over to the Corner, and stuffs him with every conceivable pastry he can think of. Arthur grumbles about how he’s going to get a stomachache in the middle of a board meeting; and Merlin winks and slips him a potion in a glass vial he’s made. (‘What on earth is in that, anyway?’ ‘Some things are better left unknown, you know……’ ‘It had better not be frog legs.’) One night, Arthur surprises Merlin with a bouquet of red roses he’s bought from the flower shop around the corner. He goes off on a rant about misogyny and how men are allowed to like flowers too, before Merlin can even open his mouth, and Merlin just shakes his head and slots his lips against Arthur’s.

It’s almost as if Merlin’s feelings are unraveling, easing themselves out of the tight knot of instant attraction and drama and guilt and secrets and almost-lust, and into something dangerously tender and calm. Merlin might even venture to call it something on its way to……

No, not that. Merlin isn’t quite ready to use that word yet.

But it’s peaceful, and idyllic, and good.

Until it’s not.

*.*.*.*

The dragon figurine calls to him when Merlin is closing up the shop.

It’s like a blaring-loud alarm bell right in his ear, just the way Merlin had willed it to be when he’d imbued the dragon with his will, and Merlin winces- before his eyes widen, and he sends his magic out to sense where the call is coming from. _Mordred. Danger_.

For a split-second, he wonders if Arthur might be with the boy, hesitating, and then the guilt follows right after, thick and choking. He can’t afford to hold onto his secrets, not when Mordred’s life may be in danger.

Not when Uther’s men may have taken him.

Merlin bites his lip, seals the image of Arthur’s tender smile in his mind- something he perhaps may not be treated to ever again- and lets his magic bring him where it will.

*.*.*.*

Merlin finds himself in an abandoned back alley.

It actually isn’t too far from the main road, close enough that Merlin can see cars rushing by from the little slot that serves as the entrance. But it’s secluded enough so as not to rouse any suspicion from passers-by, and for Uther’s men that’s usually more than enough.

Merlin steadies himself from the sudden nausea that often follows from dragging himself through time and space; then takes a deep breath, and turns to survey the situation.

Mordred is huddled near the end of the short alleyway, tucked between someone’s bag of trash and a brick wall. His shirt is sticking out of his trousers, his hair sticking up at odd angles from the fight he’s obviously put up against his would-be kidnappers. Two burly men in crisp, well-to-do suits stand facing the boy- Uther’s cronies, Merlin thinks, or he’ll eat his own hand. Merlin can sense the way Mordred’s magic threads through the air, the lingering traces from a few well-placed stunning spells crisp against his skin, and a curl of pride springs up despite it all. _Mordred’s learnt well_.

Arthur isn’t in sight, and Merlin lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His hand comes up into an instinctive casting position, almost second nature to him now. He’s never had the chance to catch Uther’s men at it, and a primal satisfaction rushes through his blood: they are _nothing_ , these men, at least against him. He can capture them, make them talk, trace them to where they’ve come from and put a stop to these abominations once and for all. Uther has hid notoriously well from the whole of the magical community, but now……

They’ve hurt so many, and they’ve tried to hurt _Mordred_ to boot. Rage hisses through his blood, sharp and heady, and Merlin’s lips set into a grim line. Oh, Merlin has no qualms about making these men pay.

And then everything goes wrong.

Mordred’s eyes, which had brimmed with relief upon seeing his arrival, widen in surprise. Merlin half-turns, and the familiar flash of yellow and blue is enough for his heart to sink through his ribcage. _He should have known Arthur was too good a parent to let his son wander about alone._

The kidnappers must have caught Mordred just when Arthur had dipped into a shop for something or the other, but Arthur is here, now, blue eyes blazing with anger, breaths coming hard and fast. No. Oh, no. These men are used to fighting against magic- Arthur, dear, beautiful Arthur, with his strong deft hands and broad shoulders and weekly work-outs, doesn’t even stand a chance.

A split-second, and then suddenly the world explodes into motion.

The would-be kidnappers are fast to recover from their trance, raising a square-shaped device that looks like a hybrid between a radio and an EMP transmitter to rest between them. One of them has managed to take hold of Mordred in the confusion. The boy kicks and bites and scratches, but his captors are a lot stronger than him, and it’s all to no avail. Mordred’s magic wilts, not quite able to summon up that admirable courage in front of his father’s innocent, watchful eyes.

_They plan to make a getaway, and take Mordred with them_. The realization hits Merlin with a jolt. He stands frozen, unable to use his magic, unable not to either. Arthur reacts a lot faster, adrenaline and fatherly panic lending him extra strength, as he shoves past Merlin and practically charges down the alley with a strangled shout. The device begins to emit a bright, golden light, and Merlin knows instinctively that it won’t be long before all three of them are well out of his reach.

Discovery.

Arthur.

_Mordred._

Merlin’s breath catches in his throat; and then suddenly there isn’t a choice anymore.

Merlin lets his magic fill his veins, shine from his eyes, blast from his fingertips. It feels like a hurricane, an earthquake, a force of nature. He doesn’t even have the time to incant a spell. He simply winds his power tight around Mordred, _wills_ him to stay. Pushes everything and anything that stands in his way out and _away_.

A blinding flash of light, and the men are gone.

Silence permeates the air. Mordred stands in the middle of the street, still a little tipsy from the sudden blast of magic. He’s a little rough around the edges but safe, _here_ , and Merlin lets out a shaky breath in relief.

And then Arthur rights himself from where he’d been blown aside by the blast, and reality crushes into Merlin like a tidal wave.

Arthur’s eyes are wide, his fingertips trembling. His lips keep trying to form words that refuse to push themselves past Arthur’s mouth. Paper-pale, still shaking a little from the adrenaline and shock-

It’s the look of someone whose world has been turned upside-down.

_To be continued……_


	13. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Talk, and the Aftermath.  
> Freya and Morgause have a breakthrough on the kidnapping cases.

Merlin can’t for the life remember how he manages to bundle Arthur back to the _Corner_. Mordred tags along, his tiny figure partly concealed behind Arthur’s trouser leg. Arthur is as pliant as a marionette with cut strings, utterly unlike the passionate, spirited man Merlin has managed to uncover over the past month. Mordred peeks him concerned looks from time to time. Every so often he bites his lip.

Merlin’s insides feel like they’ve tied themselves into knots, and he wants to clutch onto the nearest street light and retch until there’s nothing to come up anymore. Unfortunately, his latest meal stays annoyingly and staunchly put.

The jangle of the dragon bell on the door is almost unbearably loud, the warmth and smell of sugar just this side of nauseating. Merlin flicks on the light switches on autopilot, ushering Arthur into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” Merlin tries, and the everyday word hangs in the silence like a hangman’s axe, utterly discordant.

Arthur gapes at him for a moment before his face morphs into a cool, glaring mask. It’s a face Merlin hasn’t seen since the very first day they had met. It’s the face Arthur had worn when Merlin had accused him of treating Mordred badly, and the fact that he’s wearing it now doesn’t reassure Merlin at all.

Another clench of his gut. Mordred gets up and tries to putter away out of the kitchen, but Arthur winds an arm around him, drawing him close.

“We need to talk,” Arthur says, after Merlin, unable to bear the silence any longer, brings both of them large steaming mugs of stale chamomile tea. The overhead light washes Arthur’s face out in stark, hard lines. Merlin nods miserably.

“Yes. We do.”

“I did not hallucinate what I just saw.”

Merlin considers telling Arthur that yes, it was all a hallucination and nothing else. Only for a split second. Merlin is many things, but he- well, he doesn’t think he could bear his own title if he were to stoop that far. And Arthur- Arthur, lovely, strong-willed Arthur, who stood up to his father for him, deserves far better than thinking himself insane. Merlin at least owes Arthur that much.

“You didn’t.”

Arthur nods. He looks as if he’d expected that much. His jaws are visibly clenched, hands straining tight on his knees. “That was-“

His eyes shift, as if he still can’t quite bear to bring those words out of his lips, and Merlin finishes the sentence for him.

“Magic.”

It’s as if the word has robbed the entire room of air. “Magic,” Arthur repeats, teasing the syllables out like a small child. Mordred squirms a little; Arthur runs trembling fingers through the boy’s dark curls.

Merlin shrugs. The cracked red mug he’s cradling in his hands feels like a lifeline.

“And you have- _it._ ”

Merlin is filled with the ridiculous urge to laugh hilariously, to cry, to jump up and down and run out of the room. To bite into Arthur with acidic words- _I wouldn’t know what it is until you told me, would I?_ – but no, that wouldn’t be fair. If anyone is innocent in all this it’s Arthur.

Merlin brings cupped hands up to his mouth and blows gently, by way of response. Golden sparks, shifting into the shape of a dozen glittering feathers, blow across the room and drift gently to rest on Arthur’s lap. Merlin lifts his face, daring himself to meet Arthur’s eyes.

Cool. Blue. Shuttered. Merlin dares say he sees a flicker of emotion behind all that.

“That’s a yes, then.”

Merlin’s eyes flicker to Mordred’s; if there’s a time to let old secrets come to light, it’s now. Mordred gives Merlin a small nod. The barest of permissions.

“Arthur, there’s something you need to know.”

“Oh, something to know, is there?” Arthur’s voice is nearly a shout as he bangs his hand down, hard, on the table. The sudden burst of movement makes Merlin flinch. Arthur’s mug is sent skittering towards the edge of the table; Merlin decides against using his magic to draw it closer. “My- the person I thought was my boyfriend was hiding that yes, magic is real, yes, he’s a bloody wizard, and _you think I should know something_?”

Every word slices through Merlin like a scythe. Oh, Merlin has his excuses- the way Arthur seemed to distrust everything magic when they first met, though Merlin has come to know he’d had good reason for that. The fact that Merlin is responsible for a lot more than himself, that he isn’t in a position to go bandying secrets about. But Arthur’s words are pure hurt, pure emotion, and Merlin doesn’t have any excuse to counter that.

_He’d thought he’d have more time_.

Arthur’s eyes come to rest on Merlin’s. He gives a languid roll of his hand, a motion so unbearably prattish that it makes a jolt of annoyance rise to the forefront of Merlin’s mind, despite it all.

“ _Do_ tell me,” says Arthur. Mordred manages to squirm himself out of Arthur’s grip and takes Merlin’s hand in his own, still smelling faintly of baby powder and chocolate and ozone and sweat. His small, pudgy hand is like a beacon grounding Merlin to the ground, a heavy reassuring weight for all its fragility.

Merlin swallows. “Mordred is, too.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Pardon?”

“Mordred. He has magic too.”

Silence reigns for a moment. Then Arthur’s eyes widen by a fraction. “The dragon,” he says. “And all those herbal lessons you told me you’d been taking with Merlin-“

“Yes, da.” Mordred hangs his head. He looks so young in the cheap light of Merlin’s kitchen, skin alarmingly pale against the tattered mauve of Merlin’s tiny couch.

Arthur begins to laugh.

It begins as small chuckles that could have been taken for either sobs or laughter, and then progresses into large, heaping gusts of air that hints at the barest edge of insanity. Arthur buries his face in his hands, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and Merlin presses down the sudden urge to curl up like a baby and _cry_.

“Oh, this is hilarious,” Arthur mutters to himself. “My son, and my partner, both secret wizards, and none of them _deemed it worthy to let me know._ ”

Merlin curls a little into himself. “You don’t understand, Arthur. There are dangerous things for magic-users, out there. It’s-“

“You’d heard about my mother, Merlin.” Arthur snaps, eyes burning into his. “I deserved to know. I-“

Ah, Ygraine. Guilt clamors in Merlin’s gut, mixed in with notes of I don’t know, what do you want me to do, it’s too much, too much, too _much_. Mordred is quiet against Merlin’s side, a blazing warmth against the sudden chill that grips Merlin from head to toe.

“Tell me,” Arthur says. “You did know this Nimueh, didn’t you?”

Merlin gulps. “I-“

“Don’t lie to me, Merlin. I remember what you told me. You told me she’d been disgraced by your people, too.”

“Yes.” Merlin takes a sip of his tea, just to get enough moisture into his cracked neck so he can talk. “I did. But Arthur, would it have helped if you’d known?”

“That wasn’t your place to decide,” Arthur says, and slumps back into his chair.

*.*.*.*

Telling secrets, Merlin thinks, is a little like breaking a dam.

It’s the first deluge that’s difficult, but once they get flowing, it’s harder to get them to stop.

Merlin tells Arthur everything, there, curled against the sofa with Mordred by his side. Mordred goes over to Arthur once or twice; Merlin notes that for all that Arthur had appraised his son warily for a second or so, the warmth in his caresses hadn’t diminished at all. He has a good heart, Merlin knows. That’s why it hurts all the more.

He tells Arthur about his position as High Warlock, (though he disguises it as ‘someone rather important’, because the secrets of London’s underworld aren’t really his to tell.) about Nimueh’s banishment, about Mordred’s magic lessons. He tells Arthur about the kidnappings, about Uther’s crusade against magic, about the dragon figurine and what it does.

Arthur listens, face as unreadable as a statue. Sometimes he pauses to take a sip of his now-cold tea, sometimes he shifts a little or hums thoughtfully. But he listens.

“You’re telling me my father tried to kidnap my son,” Arthur says, once Merlin is done telling Arthur about Uther.

Merlin winces. “It’s the truth,” he says, hating himself as he says it. He knows what Arthur has had to go through in his childhood, and to tear the one parent figure left away from him- but it is the truth, and Merlin can’t afford to let Arthur go on unawares of the danger Mordred’s in, now that he knows everything.

Arthur stretches out a hand. “Stop.”

“But Arthur-“

“ _Stop_.”

It’s said a lot more forcefully now, and Merlin has the feeling that Arthur may well begin shouting should Merlin push him further. “Don’t you see it, Merlin? I don’t care if it’s true or not- it’s too much. Too soon. I can’t take it now. I can’t bring myself to believe it, not now.”

Arthur raises his face a little. Merlin can see the faint pinks where Arthur must have dug his fingers in, the rimmed red of his eyes.

“Heavens know I may not agree with him most of the time, but…… he’s my _father_ , Merlin.”

“Arthur.” Merlin makes to grab Arthur’s arm, but Arthur flinches away. It’s the barest of flinches, almost unnoticeable if you hadn’t been looking for it. But Merlin notices. And it hurts, for lack of a better word.

They’re just- being so good at hurting each other, today, aren’t they? It’s so easy it isn’t even funny. Arthur bites his lip, then rummages around for his coat. The scrape the table makes as it’s jostled by Arthur’s body is ridiculously loud in the silence.

“I’d best be going,” Arthur says, managing to stuff himself into his coat. Mordred’s coat is buttoned up all wrong, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind. Before they know it, Merlin is facing Arthur underneath the dim glow of the streetlamps, watching the light glint dull bronze off the curve of Arthur’s cheekbones.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, making to reach for him again. Arthur steps back.

“No, Merlin. Not today.”

And then they’re gone.

*.*.*.*

_Not today_ turns into not tomorrow, not the day after, not a week after, either. This time around, Merlin doesn’t make to call. Arthur doesn’t, either.

Merlin bakes himself a giant batch of chocolate muffins, then sees them spread out on his countertop and goes to retch into the toilet for an hour.

Alice next doors appreciates the muffins, at least.

*.*.*.*

Merlin is shoved out of his glump by his duties. Uther is on a kick again, now, and the kidnappings have started up again as if they’d never even stopped. Merlin is beginning to get the sickening feeling that the pattern is almost like waves- a mad scientist going through batch after batch of test material. Like field mice, or rats.

The thought makes Merlin unwell. He decides not to dwell on it, instead throwing himself into tracking spells that could reveal Uther’s whereabouts. Uther is an old hand at countering magic, and he’s somehow managed to make his entire complex scry-proof. Cold Iron, Merlin reckons. There isn’t much that could stop him, but cold iron would do the trick in a jiffy.

Mordred sends him pulses of forced goodwill through the dragon figurine from time to time, until that peters off, too. Merlin wonders absentmindedly if Arthur has taken it away from him, or if Mordred has grown tired of him too.

He just hopes that Arthur has heeded his warnings about Mordred- Mordred needs protection, now more than ever. Merlin has grown terribly fond of the young child over their time together, and Merlin thinks he’ll miss Mordred, even if Arthur should end up renouncing his company forever. Though that thought hurts like no-one’s business, as well.

The one bright spot is that Freya and Morgause have made some leeway on tracking Uther’s men.

“See, I’ve decided on a completely different approach,” Freya says, tracing a finger over the pieces of parchment she’s brought. “Until now, we’ve been trying to focus on tracking the transportation spell-devices through the magical residue they themselves left behind. But we think Uther’s been masking his trails by scattering powdered iron behind him, see? And you know what Iron does to magic.”

She’s more animated than Merlin has ever seen her, dark eyes lively even with the dark circles circling the underside of them. Freya has always loved solving problems, puzzling out patterns from a confusing mass of spells, and it’s a small comfort to Merlin to see one of his friends so happy. It’s one of the pleasures he has left, after- well, after everything.

“Yes. It drives magic- back. Away. Deeper, maybe.”

Freya nods. “Yes, exactly. So we decided to track _deeper_. Traces of magic through the ground. Shards embedded in the walls of buildings, in the sewer system, the underground.”

Merlin leans forward, anticipation thrumming through his veins. “And?”

“And- we did it! Well, at least we think we have; it just needs a little work, see- I think it may be done by the day after tomorrow, maybe even tomorrow night if we’re lucky.”

A laugh bubbles out of Merlin despite himself. “Wow. That’s- wow.”

Freya’s laugh is a little shaky, too. “I know, right?”

“Finally.” Merlin shakes his head. His job, his duty to his people, had been the only thing to keep him going in the aftermath of the train-wreck that had been his relationship to Arthur. And now- at last- he’ll be able to do something, _anything_ , to ensure that his people will be a little safer.

“You’ll have to decide on a course of action though, warlock.” Morgause had been content to let Freya do most of the explaining, leaning back into Merlin’s couch with a fond expression that was at odds with the usual scowl she more often wore. “What _will_ you do, once you find Uther?”

Merlin shakes his head, twisting a few strands of hair into his fist. “I’m not sure. I’m really, really not sure.”

He doesn’t want to storm Uther’s fortress by force, because hate only ever brought on more hate, and emotions will run high once both sides stand facing each other. But he’s not arrogant enough to think that he, however powerful he is, can stride in and rescue every single kidnapped child single-handedly. It’s a dilemma.

“Send a few of our best to get the little ones out,” Morgause says. “Then- we raze the cursed place to the ground.”

The latter half is said with a vicious grin, and Merlin shoots it down. But Morgause’s strategy itself is sound, and it is decided: Merlin, Freya, and Morgause will slip in, smuggling out as many children as they can. And then another wave, filtering in in their wake, sabotaging the facilities enough that such an attempt could never be carried out again.

They’re ready, now. And, for the first time in a long, long while, Merlin finally feels at peace.

*.*.*.*

And then Arthur appears on Merlin’s doorstep.

_To be continued……_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&r, please? :) Constructive criticism is always, always appreciated.


	14. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur struggles to come to terms with the revelation of Merlin's magic. Mordred is dear; and also Awesome, from time to time.  
> Then calamity strikes, and Arthur is forced to seek help from the only one who can provide it: Merlin; whom he hasn't spoken to in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who reviewed on the last chapter- my confidence has been flagging a lot, lately, and it gave me the necessary energy&encouragement to write, write, write!  
> The reason I'm updating even though it isn't a Saturday: I really to finish this fic before January is over, and news that is either good/bad according to your perspective- daily updates, from now until the end! The student I tutor has gone off on vacation, and I'll have the weekend (hopefully) to myself.  
> Rambling over now. Please- enjoy!

Arthur isn’t proud to say he treads on eggshells around his son for a week.

It isn’t anything major, of course. But it’s a little surreal to tell your son to cut down on the chocolate, to pick up his socks and please _do_ wash the backsides of your ears, when you know that said son could probably turn you into a frog with the wave of his hand. (Maybe not- Mordred is young, and he does seem to be on the path of learning. But, well, the thought holds.) Arthur sees the hurt looks Mordred seems to think he’s hiding, the aborted protests.

He feels like the worst parent ever to be born. Because, really, what father is afraid of his own _child_?

Arthur lets himself wallow in self-pity over the weekend, drinking himself into a stupor and staring with red-rimmed eyes into the patters of his wallpaper. It’s pathetic, and most certainly unbefitting an executive of one of the nation’s foremost companies; never-mind the man Arthur had thought he was. It all ends when Mordred approaches him with a familiar dragon figurine.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, still a little numb. Mordred’s clothes are rumpled- Arthur had forgotten to iron them- and his pale, young skin is rough and wan, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Guilt rushes through him in dizzying waves. Mordred gives Arthur one of his familiar looks, the one that tells Arthur that _he’s Mordred’s da and he loves him but really, he can be a giant idiot sometimes._

“Merlin’s dragon,” Mordred says matter-of-factly. “I’m giving it to you.”

“But-“ Arthur stumbles over his words. He isn’t even close to having made heads or tails of his emotions towards Merlin, true. But the figurine is one of the last links between Mordred and Merlin, and, to be honest, Arthur doesn’t think he’s cruel enough to deny his son that. He needs someone to understand him for his magic, after all.

_Magic._ The thought leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“Take it,” Mordred says, just a step away from one of his patented eye-rolls. “I think you need it a lot more than I do.”

“Alright. Thank you.” The wood is smooth and warm under his skin, the dragon’s face and body simple but tastefully carved. Arthur wonders if the faint contented hum he feels from the dragon is just his imagination, or if the magic (supposedly) imbued into the dragon is acting up.

He takes it anyway, and nods along to Mordred’s insistence that _he better go over and talk to Merlin_.

Arthur admonishes Mordred for his slurping (it’s cereal, da, it isn’t something I can help!) at the breakfast table the next morning. Mordred grumbles a little, snorts a lot, and kicks his little feet, but the look he shoots Arthur later when he thinks he isn’t looking is affection and pure relief.

*.*.*.*

Arthur must have a hidden need to torture himself, because he ends up placing the figurine on top of his desk at work. It stands annoyingly smug next to his pen-holder, glinting reddish brown in the sunlight, and Arthur finds himself staring at it more often than not on quieter afternoons.

_Father, kidnapping Mordred._

That’s what Merlin had said. Can Arthur imagine it being true? Maybe. Perhaps. Arthur knows what the man had done for the peace of his family, once; it isn’t much a stretch of the imagination to think that he might, again. He could be cruel. He could be cold. Arthur had seen the way Uther talked about Merlin. (And wouldn’t it be a neat explanation, that- about how Uther had known about Merlin in the first place?)

But it’s his father, the only family he has left behind. And he can’t bring himself to quite believe it, nevermind that he’s called a favor from one of his friends to get a discreet security detail for Mordred. He can’t. It’s the one last thing Arthur could never bring himself to do.

It’s a terrifying thought, being truly _alone._ Cut off from all that he could call kin, or family. No father-figure, however terrible or flawed, to look up to. No adult to tell him everything is under control, that all will end up fine. Arthur knows he isn’t brave enough for that, not yet. Perhaps not ever.

So that leaves the matter of Merlin, and Merlin’s- _magic_.

Arthur wonders if he ought to have been more skeptical. If he should have ranted and raged about drugs, hallucinogens, the way people in movies always seemed to do. But Arthur knows what he’s seen, and it isn’t anything his imagination could ever cook up.

Merlin’s eyes, lighting up with a gold more brilliant than the sun itself.

The blast of sheer, unadulterated power; blasting Arthur sideways and back, erasing the two kidnappers without a trace. It had been a force of nature, bottled lightning, liquid fire; it had left every single pore of Arthur’s body alight and tingling like in an aftermath of a storm.

The way the quietness of the corner had seemed almost surreal, the everyday world he lived in somehow suddenly drab and mute and grey.

Yes, Arthur knows. And maybe- maybe he can understand, too, why Merlin couldn’t have told him. Arthur remembers how he’d reacted to Merlin’s tattoo on their first-date-that-hadn’t-been-a-date, and he supposes it hadn’t really been encouraging to, well, latter reveals. But.

There’s so much in Arthur’s life that he hasn’t known, that has suddenly gained a whole new dimension. His mother. Nimueh.

_Merlin_.

It’s a huge, twisted mess, confusion and mysteries and hurt, and Arthur- well. For the first time in his life, Arthur doesn’t know what to do.

So he muddles through his life, and fills in numbers on his reports and yells at incompetent employees in branch meetings. He goes out to the pub to meet his mates, watches footie on lonely Saturday afternoons, and resolutely, resolutely refuses to call Merlin.

*.*.*.*

Arthur dreams of Merlin.

They’re sitting in a meadow of some sorts, and Merlin is stretched out beside him, a sliver of skin peeking out from where his t-shirt meets the waistband of his trousers. The angle somehow accentuates all of his best features, sharp cheekbones and fluttering lashes and lush, lush lips, and Arthur swallows despite himself.

Merlin laughs a little, and beckons him closer. Arthur is hopelessly enticed by Merlin. By the burning warmth of his thigh against his, the slim line of his torso, the sugar-and-ozone smell that nobody could pull of but him. Arthur leans closer to him, almost as if one entranced.

And then Merlin opens his eyes, and they are molten.

‘Why?’ he asks, and his smile doesn’t seem quite so kind anymore. ‘Afraid, are you?’

Arthur tries to deny it, but his lips are sealed shut. As if by magic. Magic. Magic, that Merlin wields, that turns his eyes that terrifying shade of gold-

Merlin laughs again. ‘You want me. It’s alright.’

And then Arthur is crashing his lips against Merlin’s. His fingers are digging bruises against the fair skin of Merlin’s ribs, Arthur can feel, but Merlin simply quirks his lips against Arthur’s. Arthur can taste the magic on Merlin’s lips. It’s heady and powerful and intoxicating. It feels like drinking liquid lightning. Like fire burning through his veins.

It’s so _wrong_ , and so right.

No, no, no, no, Arthur chants, against the desperate rhythm of his lips that are crying otherwise. Merlin is still smiling. Arthur wants to laugh and cry and bang himself against a brick wall. But he is kissing Merlin. Is being lost in Merlin’s depths. And he cannot stop.

Arthur wakes with a gasp, feeling dirtied, confused, torn. Tired.

Arthur still can’t bring himself to rid himself of the little dragon on his desk.

*.*.*.*

Arthur is on his way to Mordred’s daycare to pick him up when he receives the call.

Percival, the new security detail he had assigned to Mordred after the first aborted kidnapping, is a gentle giant of a man. He’s quiet but efficient, deadly-calm, with arms that could bench-press a car. He never, never panics.

But he does now.

Percival’s voice is shaking as he informs Arthur of how he had arrived at Mordred’s daycare- ten minutes prior to Arthur’s arrival, as always- only to find him already checked out and gone.

Percival’s voice breaks on the last syllable of a bitten-off apology. Arthur is well aware that it’s hardly Percival’s fault, when Mordred hadn’t even been under his watch at that exact moment. But he can’t help the curt reply he snaps out before slashing through the phone’s connection.

Arthur has never been religious. Why rely on vague gods and goddesses, after all, when a man can just as well forge a life for himself on his own merits? All that blind faith, reliance- it had struck a discordant chord with his memories of Ygraine in her last, most insane phases. So no, Arthur has never been religious.

But now he hisses out a prayer to every single deity he can think of. Even Merlin’s ephemeral ‘goddess’. Because Mordred has to be fine, _has to be_ , or else Arthur doesn’t think he could possibly forgive himself.

He should have taken Merlin’s warning more seriously. But he had been so caught up in his own personal crisis that he’d disregarded it with nothing more than a _security detail_.

It may be too late, now.

Arthur hopes against hope that it isn’t.

*.*.*.*

Arthur had signed out of his office early to pick Mordred up himself, and that means that the road is still free of the normal six o’clock traffic jam. Arthur drives like a madman across London’s foggy skies and shadowed roads. He’s pretty sure he’s broken about five different traffic laws on the way. He doesn’t care. It isn’t important. Not now.

Arthur is barely out of the car before the engine dies down. He flings his keys into his trousers’ pockets, nearly ripping a hole in it in the process. The day-care manager is waiting for him outside, wringing her hands. Percival stands beside her, large and silent. Guilt shrouds his face.

“Mordred?” Arthur growls. The woman looks haggard, wispy brown hair whipping against her face in the brisk wind that has started up. She wrings her hands again. Her face is white as a parchment. Understandable, Arthur supposes. He probably looks half insane, now, suit in disarray, blood bleached out of his face. Fists clenched. He strains to concentrate over the pounding of blood in his ears. The dizziness.

“He- the man,” she says. “He had the credentials. He said he was a relative of Mordred’s. He’d said he had your permission……”

“And you didn’t think to _call me_ first?” The words come out at a half-shout, and the woman cowers. Arthur bites back a surge of vicious satisfaction.

“He had the credentials……” she whispers, close to tears now. Arthur clenches a hand in his hair, letting the sharp pain ground him.

_Credentials_.

Proof that whoever it was knew Mordred. Was a representative of Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t have many personal acquaintances, bar his small group of friends. And Arthur knows that they would never kidnap Mordred. They love the little toddler like their own. That leaves-

A cold feeling, clenching in his gut. No. Arthur refuses to believe. _He can’t._

“Any description?” Percival says, putting a calming hand on Arthur’s bicep. Arthur wants to buck his hand off, wants to yell his frustration to the skies. _His fault. It’s all Arthur’s fault, and Mordred is going to pay_.

The woman nods, a quick, jerking motion. “This tall, about. He was wearing some sort of dark coat, formal-like. And……”

Arthur has heard enough. Dark coat- that means that they’re the same as those goons who had tried to kidnap Mordred, before. Leastways the description fits in well enough. And that means that they were the ones that Merlin had had to fight off with-

_Magic_.

_Damn it_. Arthur doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does Percival. Merlin had said that they had been trying to teleport away from them when he stopped them. How does a normal man stand against a weapon like that? How can Arthur _fight_ , when he hasn’t the foggiest what exactly his foes may have up their sleeves?

“We should alert the police,” Percival says, the voice of reason to Arthur’s chaos. But Arthur knows, deep down, that the police won’t be enough. They’ll be too slow, too tentative, and, most important: Not strong enough.

“No.”

“No?”

“I know what to do.”

Merlin had said that he was the- high warlock. Arthur isn’t sure, but the title had sounded important enough. Perhaps someone of import in the magical community. And Arthur has seen Merlin’s power in action. Frightening, true; but the best ally he could ever hope for.

Arthur knows that he hasn’t been fair to Merlin. Oh, he has his reasons. He was hurt. Confused. He needed time to think. To come to terms with things. But just as true is the fact that he’s probably hurt Merlin with his silence. Even though, this time around, Merlin hasn’t even tried to call.

Arthur isn’t ashamed to admit that he has his pride. But if it was a choice between begging for help, and Mordred’s safety?

There was never any choice. Arthur would walk on his knees if he had to. Worse, perhaps, if it was asked of him.

*.*.*.*

When Merlin gave him his address, Arthur thinks, neither of them would have ever imagined that Arthur’s first visit would be under circumstances like this.

Merlin’s flat is tucked into a building a little ways away from _the Corner_. It’s a haphazard, homely box of a building, scuff marks on the cream-coloured exterior, petunias blooming on one of the resident’s windowsills. Something, Arthur admits, he could most certainly imagine Merlin living in.

Arthur’s dread is quick to squash the stirrings of sentimentality before they have the chance to bloom. The lift arrives with a soft _ding_. Arthur stares almost unseeingly at the lacquered, ridiculously gothic panels that show the different levels. He presses. The door closes.

He ascends.

And before he knows it, he is standing in front of the door of Merlin’s flat.

His insides are a total mess. Guilt, that he’s here begging for help, when he was the one who had practically snubbed all of Merlin’s advances. Would he have ended up here, even without Mordred’s kidnapping? Perhaps. But, again, perhaps it would have taken much, much longer than this. Anxiety. Fear. Apprehension. That small, barely-there stirring of yearning. Attraction. Because, despite it all, Arthur doesn’t think he could ever quite erase Merlin from his mind.

Arthur takes a deep breath. Knocks.

There’s a brief clamor inside, almost as if someone had knocked down a stand full of umbrellas. And then Merlin is standing in the door.

He looks horrible; blue eyes wide, dark circles prominent under them. Face too angular, skin too pale. His eyes widen in surprise at Arthur.

“Arthur,” he says. Arthur can’t read Merlin’s eyes. He always could have; but not today. “It isn’t- a good time.”

And then Arthur can’t help it anymore, and he chokes, numbness dragging down his syllables. “I know.” His voice is hoarse. “But it’s not about me. Mordred. He’s been- taken.”

Merlin freezes. The air around Merlin seems to roil as if in a sudden gust, and this time around, Arthur knows what it must be. _Magic_. The small hairs on Arthur’s arms stand up. Arthur knows that Merlin had loved Mordred like his own. And now it has been proven without doubt. It’s reassuring, in a strange, twisted sort of way.

“Alright,” he says, “I think you should come in.”

Merlin’s flat is- almost exactly as Arthur might have imagined, had he been asked to draw a picture of Merlin’s home in his mind. Small, cluttered, cozy, with an edge that speaks to hidden depths. Arthur pushes his way past a low, hanging curtain and emerges into an equally cluttered living room. Two figures are sitting around Merlin’s low, stained coffee-table. A gigantic, scarred tomcat winds its way around Arthur’s legs, hissing threateningly.

Arthur recognizes Freya and Morgause, Merlin’s so-called colleagues. They must all be magical, he realizes now, with a jolt of his blood. _Police officer, my bloody arse;_ Arthur should have been more suspicious of Merlin’s words. Arthur has certainly never seen a police officer bedecked in such an abundance of leather- leather trousers wind around her muscled legs, chains hang in straps from her leather vest, dangerous-looking, studded boots adorn her feet. Freya sits beside her on Merlin’s threadbare couch, dressed practically in jeans and a tight-fitting sweater.

Dressed for business.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Merlin. What’s going on here?”

“Going to find Mordred,” Merlin says, at the same time as Morgause answers:

“Storming Uther Pendragon’s fortress.”

Merlin lets out a gasp. Morgause’s eyes come up to meet his, and there is an icy challenge burning in her gaze.

_To be continued……_


	15. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rescue begins. To succeed, Arthur must learn how to work with Merlin and his magical colleagues- and to triumph over his own demons.  
> It won't be easy. But, for his son, there isn't anything Arthur won't do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am as promised! My brain is too scrambled to type out a coherent A/N right now; all I can remember is that I had something I wanted to say but *what on earth was that.* :( I'll try to remember it by tommorow; I promise. Hopefully I'll be a lot more conscious by then.  
> +On a side note- there's a cut scene lurking around on my laptop, where Mordred persuades Merlin to go talk to Arthur. Somewhere about Chapter Nine, I suppose. Would you be interested in reading about it? If so, I'll sneak it onto the end of that chapter and then let you know!+  
> That being said- please enjoy, and, as always, comments and/or kudos are always always hugely appreciated! They do wonders towards my everyday life. :)

_Previously on Our Corner of the World:_

_Arthur narrows his eyes. “Merlin. What’s going on here?”_

_“Going to find Mordred,” Merlin says, at the same time as Morgause answers:_

_“Storming Uther Pendragon’s fortress.”_

_Merlin lets out a gasp. Morgause’s eyes come up to meet his, and there is an icy challenge burning in her gaze._

Morgause’s eyes are cold, almost contemptuous. Arthur has seen enough cutthroat businessmen to know when he’s being dared to back down. But what makes cold dread pool in his gut is that familiar name:

Uther Pendragon.

Freya shifts a little on the couch, settling a bit nearer towards the edge. Her dark eyes are wide and apprehensive, but ultimately unsurprised. Merlin lets out a small sigh, leaning against the cheap linoleum of his kitchen counter. He’s biting his lip. Arthur knows him well enough to be able to read his expression. Guilt. Worry. So Morgause and Freya know who he is. And, from the glare Morgause is sending him, she isn’t very happy about it.

She still hasn’t dropped her eyes; daring Arthur to answer.

But Arthur-

He feels like his entire world is crashing down. The only glue holding him together is his complete and utter refusal to _think._

Merlin’s warnings, to stay away from his father. The contempt in Morgause’s eyes, the guarded fear in Freya’s. Merlin’s roundabout excuse- ‘we’re going to find Mordred’- ridiculous, really. How could he have planned to do so when he’d most obviously heard the news only after Arthur’s arrival?

A grandfather, kidnapping his grandson. It isn’t something Arthur is ready to stomach. But a small part of him knows that maybe, maybe, his father may actually be capable of such a thing.

“I know that you know where Mordred’s being held.” Arthur takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Am I right?”

“You heard me, Pendragon.” Morgause turns to look briefly down at her nails, then slides her hand over a bump in her leather trousers- from the shape of it, probably a weapon of some sort. “Uther Pendragon. Your dear father. How do you feel about that?”

Those eyes are back. Harsh, icy blue, unforgiving. Arthur clenches his jaw. Morgause he would be a bit more wary to believe, the dislike she holds for him obvious. But Merlin hisses out in pain, sinking a little lower against the counter, and Arthur knows that the woman- sorceress- isn’t lying.

Another crack. Arthur doesn’t know how much longer he can hold up.

“We aren’t sure, about Mordred,” Merlin whispers, soft. His eyes are carefully guarded. Closed-off. Arthur feels a pang of regret despite it all. He’s never seen Merlin this measured, composed.

“But you think it’s the largest possibility.” Arthur says. Merlin nods.

Arthur won’t believe before he _sees_. But whoever these men are, they have Mordred, and Mordred- needs him.

And Arthur knows what he has to do.

“I’m going with you,” he says. Silence reigns in the room for a heartbeat. Then Morgause gets up in a clatter of leather and metal, slamming her palms down on the coffee table. Several mugs rattle and fall.

“No! He’ll only be a liability!”

Spoken towards Merlin, who, it seems, really is a leader of some sorts. Merlin bites his lip, considering.

Freya turns towards him, too. “I’m sorry,” she says, the apology directed towards Arthur. “But- I think Morgause’s right. We have to be quick, we have to be efficient. And we’re going to need-“

_Magic_ , is what Arthur hears, tacked on unspoken to her words. And maybe they’re right. Arthur knows enough to defend himself, but he’s no fighter, really, and he most certainly does not have magic. But he’s a _parent_ , too, and he can’t bear the thought of being left behind when his child may well be in terrible danger.

He doesn’t think he could bear the wait.

“Please,” Arthur says, turning towards Merlin. He feels horrible, dirty, under-handed. He’d never been in the position to beg to others, before, but today all he seems to do is beg. Beg, wheedle, appeal to that _thing_ that he and Merlin used to have. His voice cracks a little towards the end. Merlin’s eyes flash with pain, conflict churning in their depths. Arthur turns away, unable to bear its brunt.

And then the shutters flick back, Merlin is calm and composed once more, and he nods.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Arthur is coming with us.”

“ _Merlin!_ ” Morgause’s voice is raised to a half-shout. “Are you really so blinded by a pretty face that-“

“Please, Morgause,” Merlin says, voice drawn and wan. Again, guilt pangs through Arthur’s gut.

Morgause looks towards Merlin, then towards Arthur. She sighs, shaking her head.

“So be it. But if one child is harmed because of him…….”

“It won’t happen,” Merlin says, and there is steel in his voice. Words of a commander, a protector. “I’ll make sure of it.”

*.*.*.*

They arrive at the location via a teleportation spell. There’s an apprehensive glint in Freya’s eyes as she prepares the incantation. Arthur nods, hoping that it conveys the message. Freya looks vaguely surprised before she nods back, a small smile gracing her lips. They all link their arms together, as Freya begins to murmur a soft chain of words. A brief flash of light, and they’re standing somewhere else entirely.

Arthur recognizes the façade. It’s one of Pendragon Corps’ old warehouses, in need of repair and temporarily retired. The grey concrete walls are stark against the setting sun, the red glow adding a touch of ominousness to the scene.

_No, don’t_ think, Arthur tells himself, as he follows the rest in single file. They filter across the expanse of flat grass unseen (a concealment spell, Merlin mutters, before promptly waving his hand and turning them half-invisible) and slip into an alcove by the door, breaths coming a little faster.

A guard is posted by the door. Two, in fact, and they’re fully-armed, with black bulletproof vests strapped onto their torsos and rifles hanging by their sides. Arthur reckons he could catch several knives in holsters by their ankles, too, glinting subtly in the sunlight.

“I thought this was abandoned three years ago,” Arthur mutters, mostly to himself. Merlin quirks an eyebrow. Still distant, still measured. But Arthur supposes he can’t really blame anyone but himself.

“Apparently not,” he says.

Freya distracts one guard with a convincing illusion of footsteps, and Morgause knocks the other out with a sleeping spell.

“Better than knocking him clean out,” she says, as they slip into the corridor right behind the side entrance they’ve come in through. “There’s the possibility someone could think he’s simply been slacking off.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“More likely than you’d imagine.”

Arthur lets out an incredulous huff at that. Incredulous, and in no small measures impressed. The world he had been living in, Arthur thinks, has been an incredibly small place.

Merlin does something to disable the security cameras, and they carry on.

“We have to find where the children are being kept,” he says. “They’ve somehow managed to make the entire complex scry-proof- I bet all the walls are reinforced with cold iron.” Arthur bites his lip. Merlin had briefed him quickly before they’d set off, and what he had heard had been horrifying, for lack of a better word. Children with magic, kidnapped straight off of the streets. Arthur remembers spotting a sudden surge in iron import on the company’s ledgers. Again, that trickle of dread. His father-

_No. Don’t think_.

Mordred needs him. So he will be strong.

It only takes Arthur two more corridors or so before realization dawns. He tugs on Freya’s windbreaker, halting their progress. “Wait.”

“Arthur, we don’t have time-“ her gentle voice is impatient, and Arthur shakes his head, gesturing Morgause and Merlin back towards him as well.

“I know. But I think I can save you that. I remember this place; I’d been on the committee to evaluate it for retirement, several years ago. It’s not crystal-clear, but I can give you a picture.”

Morgause cocks her head. “And what may that be?”

“You said there’s a lot of children that have been taken, yes?”

“We did.”

“So, this used to be a warehouse, and I don’t think whoever’s in charge of this-“ A flicker of pity from Freya. Arthur clamps down on the resulting annoyance faster than it can spring up. No time to think. He can’t afford to. “Must have had time to renovate it completely. Too much time, too much effort, and, above all, too noticeable.” Arthur frowns, trying to concentrate on his memories. An intricate maze of small rooms and alcoves, on the ground floor, to serve as research facilities. And underneath, a gigantic cavern of storage space, reinforced with cast-iron bars and concrete walls three feet thick.

Large enough, Arthur thinks, to keep a veritable army of people captive.

The thought sickens him to the gut. The thought of Mordred there, scared and beaten and still defiant, because that’s the sort of person he is, even more so.

“I think I know where to check first,” he says.

*.*.*.*

Morgause gives him a vaguely impressed look as Arthur leads them through corridor after corridor, slamming his fist into the hidden emergency panel to lurch the lift into activation. Thank gods all Pendragon buildings operate on the same protocol. Arthur very resolutely refuses to think of the implications.

Off the lift, two more turns, three more guards, a double-door that’s seemingly impervious to magic (but not, it seems, to good old-fashioned hotwiring) later- and they are ready.

The doors swing open silently.

The sight that greets Arthur makes him want to gag.

The room is wide, and lit in regular intervals by stark, industrial lights hanging from the ceiling beams. Still, the harsh lighting does nothing to combat the pervading sense of grime and darkness that coats the room. Children, row upon row of them, are strewn about the floor. The room stinks of sweat and neglect. All of their clothes are in tatters, and Arthur spots a few bruises and dried blood here and there.

Arthur hears Merlin’s breath hitch behind him. He registers Morgause rushing forward, uncharacteristically desperate. One of the larger, grubbier children jump up to wrap his arms around her wiry torso; the tender look Morgause gives him in response isn’t something Arthur would have ever imagined her capable of. The children titter nervously, a few squinting against the light as if they aren’t quite used to it. Freya thrusts her palm forward, bringing a gentle golden blossom to life in the curve of her hand with a few muttered words.

“We’re here for you,” she says, and then it’s cacophony: children crying in relief, several shaking their heads disbelievingly, still others whooping in joy before other, warier children quieten then down. Arthur registers Merlin muttering a few words behind him- probably for protection, or silence; he registers Freya and Morgause beginning to gather children into groups, Freya chalking runes onto the floor around them with a piece of white chalk she’s brought.

Arthur registers all this, but his mind is racing, his eyes frantically searching for Mordred. It’s difficult to see in the dim lighting of the warehouse, in the roiling mass of young, emaciated bodies. Arthur feels the air stir beside him, and turns, to find Merlin next to him, profile grim as he stares into the murk.

Arthur resists the urge to clamp a desperate hand onto Merlin’s arm. “Mordred’s not here,” he says, heart beating so fast he’s afraid it will burst straight out of his rib-cage.

“ _Mordred_ ,” Merlin breathes, almost at the same time.

It feels like a bare moment, Merlin calling Freya and Morgause over, coordinating the teleportation back to Freya and Morgause’s flat, telling them _to go ahead, they have someone to find_.

And then it’s just Arthur and Merlin, rushing down corridors at breakneck speeds, hoping against hope for Mordred to be safe.

Hoping that they aren’t too late.

*.*.*.*

Room after room turns out empty.

Opening the doors are ridiculously easy with Merlin’s magic, and Arthur waits with bated breath as Merlin blasts door after door off their hinges. Most of the rooms look deceptively innocent, all sterile syringes and metal beds with crisp, white sheets, but they have a distinctively cold feel to them. Almost like labs set up for experimenting.

But- they were _children_.

His father- but Arthur can’t believe, even now, can’t-

_Don’t think_ , he clamps down on himself, and runs to keep up with Merlin.

They’re on their fourth corridor when they hear the distinctive murmur of voices from across a wall. The voice is low-pitched and rumbling, and Merlin gestures for Arthur to come stand next to him, where he’s crouched down with an ear pressed against a steel door painted a shade of dark, charcoal grey.

“-Should be grateful,” Arthur hears. “To be given the chance to be free of the evil-“ “Sorcery-“

And then Merlin, wide-eyed, is slamming his shoulder against the door, eyes flashing gold. The door never stood a chance.

*.*.*.*

The scene that greets Arthur freezes the breath in his lungs.

Arthur watches, horrified, as if in a dream, at the figure of his father. His father, who is facing Mordred, blue eyes so wide and scared and defiant. He’s wearing some sort of outfit that’s a twisted mockery of a hospital gown, ridiculously happy-looking giraffes and rabbits decorating the pale blue folds. The laughing faces of the animals almost look grotesque. Mordred’s cheekbones are sticking out of his face, lashes ringed with something that could be dust, blood, or any other matter of things.

Uther is clad in a long, white lab-coat, clasped neatly over his customary three-piece suit. He is holding a syringe in his hand.

Arthur can do nothing but stare, numb, as Merlin snatches Mordred to him and holds him close, cold rage burning on his face.

“Arthur,” his father greets him. “What a surprise.”

_To be continued……_


	16. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Our Corner of the World:  
>  Uther is clad in a long, white lab-coat, clasped neatly over his customary three-piece suit. He is holding a syringe in his hand.  
>  Arthur can do nothing but stare, numb, as Merlin snatches Mordred to him and holds him close, cold rage burning on his face.   
>  “Arthur,” his father greets him. “What a surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is a little early- well, it's a new day, though, at least where I live. I've just realized that it may not be the case in the US or Europe! :O  
> I have to be out for a long while today, though, and I thought it better to be early rather than late...... :> Hope that's okay with y'all too. :)  
> *Oh, and Merlin gets to be BAMF in this one! Finally! At last! The scene was so so satisfying to write. Hope you enjoy it as well!*

“Arthur,” Uther Pendragon says. “What a surprise.”

And Merlin can’t breathe, for a moment. Mordred lets out a surprised hiss, and Merlin realizes that he’d been squeezing his little hands so hard they hurt. Merlin flinches, self-disgust rearing itself in his gut. Mordred tilts to catch his gaze, an unspoken _it’s alright_ clear in his eyes. Merlin’s heart swells for this sweet, innocent child, so much stronger than he ever could be.

But- Arthur’s face.

Arthur’s expression has turned into a stone mask, almost like a husk without a soul. And no wonder; because- how can one come to terms with the fact that his own father has kidnapped his son?

That was why Merlin hadn’t wanted to bring Arthur along. Because, after all things are said and done, Arthur is a good man. And he doesn’t deserve this. But Arthur’s desperation had been so stark, back in his flat, and there had been something intrinsically wrong about someone as self-sufficient as Arthur being reduced that close to _begging_.

And so- Merlin had caved.

He is beginning to wish a little he hadn’t.

“Father,” Arthur hisses, and it’s betrayal, rage, detached disbelief, all rolled into one. Uther looks at his son through narrowed eyes. Cool. Composed. Calculating.

Merlin has never hated that man as much. Ygraine’s insanity and subsequent death twisted him into a bare mockery of the man he had been- _a monster_.

“It seems you know about sorcery, then,” Uther says. “Seeing as you came with- _him._ ”

“And you did, too,” Arthur replies. “All these years, father. All these years you told me-“

“That it isn’t real? Of course, Arthur. You were my son. And I had the duty to protect you from its evil.”

“It isn’t evil.” Arthur’s voice is shaking, and his fists are clenched so tightly Merlin can see the tendons standing stark against his rolled-up sleeves. A spark of hope blooms inside him.

“I see you’ve been- corrupted.” Uther hisses, distaste clear on his face. “As your son has been. And he has stooped even lower- he has chosen to _learn_ it.”

Arthur is trembling visibly, now. Merlin knows a little of his history with his father- how violent, domineering, Uther had turned after his wife’s death. But Arthur is strong, so strong; to be standing up to him now. Merlin gives Mordred a little squeeze, and he runs over to Arthur, winding his arms around his father’s legs. Arthur’s gaze flits down to the little boy. Merlin sees pain, guilt; but, above all, love, and acceptance. Arthur shakes his head, slowly.

“Would you have him live out the rest of his life with his gift in binds, father?”

“Of course not.” Merlin’s face snaps up at that admission. _What-_

And then Uther’s voice continues: “That’s why I have been searching for ways to- let us say, eradicate it. And, at last, we have the way.” Uther’s fingers caress the syringe he is holding almost reverently. Dark, sickly red, the liquid moves as sluggishly as blood. “To purge the world of sorcery- for once and for all.”

Oh, goddess.

Oh, _gods_ -

Merlin feels sick. The sterile, lab-like environment of all the rooms. All those children, taken in waves, almost like gathering animals for experimentation. Uther had been doing research, bloody research, on how to rob children of magic- and the magical children had borne the brunt of it.

Magic runs in his veins; it winds in his very blood. That anyone might try and rob that from him permanently, that they had tried to _use_ children for it━

Merlin has never been this angry in his life.

Arthur hasn’t answered yet.

Merlin remembers Arthur’s reaction to his magic. The subsequent silences. All those times Arthur had seemed uncomfortable, discomfited- his tattoo, his crystals, his dragon…… Please, Arthur, no. _Please._

Silence stretches.

Uther’s lips stretch into the beginning of a satisfied smile.

Then Arthur raises his chin, fixes Uther with a chilling, blue gaze, and says:

“No.”

*.*.*.*

It only takes a split-second for Uther’s face to blend from surprise, to disbelief, to anger.

“Then you are no son of mine,” he hisses, face contorted into a mask of pure fury. A strange, boxy transmitter, almost shaped like a radio, buzzes to life at his side. Uther jabs a finger into the largest button, and yells, “Guards!”

Arthur starts as if coming out of a trance. “I thought we had-“

_Gotten rid of all of them_ , is what he doesn’t say. Merlin’s eyes widen. “No, we didn’t. When we were searching for Mordred. Later. Don’t you-“

They’d been in such a hurry that they’d barely managed to put the ones in their way to sleep. There hadn’t been any time to spare trying to weasel out all the guards, not with Mordred’s possible safety at stake. Shite, Merlin curses to himself. _Shite_. How could they have been so _stupid_ -

And then the first wave bursts through the door.

Uther must have had his most elite force stationed nearby, Merlin realizes. The man may be many things, but meticulous is most certainly most of them; he would never have put his own safety in jeopardy. They hadn’t stopped to bloody _think_. And now they’re paying the price.

Merlin watches in horror as men in grey camouflage march in, handguns at the ready, eyes shadowed under tight-fitting helmets. There must be at least five of them to start with, many more, undoubtedly, lurking outside the door. They can’t possibly escape. Not by conventional means.

“I’ll ask again,” Uther says, dangerously quiet. “Will you stay loyal to me, your family? Or to that- freak of nature?”

Merlin’s blood runs hot, then cold. His magic fizzes anxiously against his skin, stomach roiling and tying itself into knots. Merlin feels like he is teetering on the edge, as if the barest nudge will be all it takes for him to go tumbling right over the brink.

It’s almost as if the world holds its breath.

Then the world bursts into action, as Arthur vaults over a low chair, and punches his father in the face.

“Merlin! I trust you!” he yells, eyes sliding to meet his. Even over the short distance, his eyes are blindingly blue, unwavering. Wait. Does he want him to━

Almost imperceptibly, Arthur nods. _Get on with it_ , the quirk of his mouth says, and Merlin beams, feeling giddy, invulnerable, _invincible_.

“Took you long enough,” Merlin says, and lets his magic loose.

*.*.*.*

Merlin’s magic has been denied for too long.

Forced to lie dormant, as he struggled to fit in as a run-of-the-mill citizen, although he really did enjoy baking and creating delicious things. Made to lie low, again and again, as Merlin struggled to forge a little corner in the world for himself, trying to ease Arthur into revelation into revelation.

But- no longer.

Merlin almost laughs at the sheer giddiness as his magic bursts out of him in a giant shock-wave of light. It feels the cold iron encasing the building, the cruelty seeping into its seams. _Tear it down_ , it whispers, _raze this abomination to the ground_. Fragments of the children’s magic sing back in response, trapped too long, denied when they were needed most- _Yes. Yes, Crumble the bricks; tear down the walls. Yes_.

Merlin lets his magic do what it will.

He lets it caress over Arthur, feather-light; lets it brush gentle fingers over Mordred, erasing his bruises, soothing his ills. He laughs, again, as it unravels the very threads that hold the building together, let them crumble into rubble and then dust; almost throws his hands up in joy at the magics finally released, singing for joy, as they rush to sweep across the wind, burst into the sky, root themselves deep into the ground, right where they belong.

And then━

Silence.

Merlin falters a little on his feet, feeling more drained than he ever has in his life. It’s suddenly dark, and Merlin turns in confusion, only to see a foggy night sky speckled with stars spread out above him, where there should have been a ceiling.

_Arthur! Mordred!_

Merlin nearly panics, before he spots the two of them, picking their way over to him across a suddenly rubble-strewn ground. Merlin turns around, and gasps.

The building is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, as far as the eye can see, is wasteland, dotted here and there with clumps of cement and dusty sand, and, further beyond, London’s skyline.

Merlin gapes. _Did his magic just do that_? Gaius had always told him to be careful with his power, but this- this…… it’s ridiculous.

“Never do anything by halves, do you?” Arthur’s voice sounds from behind him. Merlin spins around. Arthur is safe, if a bit dusty, and Mordred stands beside him, likewise battered but otherwise a lot healthier than he’d been back in Uther’s lab room.

Merlin lets out an incredulous laugh. Joking. Arthur’s joking. After everything they’ve gone through.

Trying to be discreet, he runs a tendril of magic through Arthur’s flesh, checking for injuries. None. Merlin shifts a little on his feet. “You aren’t-“

“Aren’t?” one of Arthur’s eyebrows are raised.

“You aren’t- scared of me?”

Arthur’s face grows serious at that. It almost feels like something bigger than themselves, this moment. Arthur’s figure is stark against the dark of the night, London’s buildings glimmering faintly in the distance. It’s so quiet Merlin swears he could hear his own heartbeat. Arthur’s, too, maybe, if he tried.

Then his lips quirk into a smile.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t quite think that I am.”

*.*.*.*

Things are a bit of a whirlwind after that.

Edwin, a scarred sorcerer in charge of the latter team responsible for sabotaging the facilities, nearly smacks Merlin across the head. Merlin had taken lessons from the man when he was younger, and it takes a lot out of him to hold back from flinching at his famed Staff of Doom. (What are we supposed to sabotage, Merlin, when you’ve blasted the whole thing to kingdom come? Take the satisfaction of a job well-done away from us, won’t you……) And then there’s dropping by at Freya and Morgause’s to check up on the health of the newly recovered children, and the many questions fielded by Arthur. (‘What did you do to that building?’ ‘Not sure, really; my magic did most of the work……’ ‘Father?’ ‘Back at the office, I think. No, Arthur, I didn’t kill him. Just…… sent him far away.’)

Once Mordred has finished his tearful reunion with both of his da’s, because that’s Merlin’s new title now, and stuffed himself sick on Ben&Jerry’s before lugging himself off to bed, Arthur and Merlin have the night all to themselves.

There’s a tentative silence between them. The weeks-long silence, and then the kidnapping, the mad dash for Mordred, the aftermath- it’s too much, too soon, and it almost feels like talking too much about it might upset the newly-drying mortar between them.

Arthur sighs, settling himself a little further into his decadent leather couch. He’s cradling a steaming cup of tea between his hands.

“So.”

“Yeah.”

“That was my father.”

Merlin has to avert his eyes at that. But he can’t afford to tell Arthur lies, not anymore. He does know that Arthur wouldn’t ever have let him close enough, without the initial lies about his tattoo, but the more he does it the more it feels like shoveling thick, bile-like gloop into his own throat.

“Yeah, it was.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything for a while. Then: “You know, after all that…… I don’t think I’m so terribly surprised. I mean, of course I denied it, with everything I had. But when the truth came out- all I could think of was, oh.”

Merlin toys with a piece of paper he’d found on the counter. Arthur moves a little closer.

“Does that make me- strange?”

There’s a tremble in Arthur’s voice, and when Merlin catches Arthur’s eyes, they’re sheened over with moisture. Oh, this poor, beautiful man.

“No.” Taking a deep breath, Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s. He feels Arthur’s breath hitch. “I think that makes you a very sad person. But you’ve been so strong, Arthur. I think you can cut yourself some slack.”

“He never was the same, after mother.”

“Shhhh. I know.” Merlin combs his other hand through Arthur’s hair, reveling in the feeling of cool, silky tresses carding through his fingers. “Be quiet, now. It’s been a long day.”

“Bloody understatement of the century.” Then Arthur snorts, with the kind of off-hinged hilarity that only shock can bring. “Wait. Are you trying to hug me better?”

“In your dreams, you prat.” The banter flows like second nature, and it almost feels like the barriers between them are breaking, ice floes cracking over water. “I still haven’t forgiven you for snubbing me after my magic.”

“I know. That was wrong of me.”

“Is the great Arthur Pendragon apologizing?”

“Yes. I mean-“ Arthur struggles out of Merlin’s tight embrace, pushing himself back so he can look Merlin in the eye. “After all that you’ve done with me. I’ve-“ he hangs his head, shaggy hair falling across his forehead. “I’ve been a prat. A bloody, total prat.”

Merlin laughs, giddy and incredulous. “You know,” he says, shaking his head. “I might actually have begun to forgive you.”

“That’s- that’s good.” Arthur laughs, too, huffing and a little unbelieving. It’s like clouds parting, like a shaft of sunlight on a foggy day. And, well, Merlin hates to get all sappily romantic, but it really, really is.

“May I kiss you now?” Arthur asks, courtly as you please. Merlin flutters his eyelashes, ridiculously coy.

“You may,” he says, and then Arthur is tugging Merlin forward, crashing their lips together.

They kiss.

Merlin never, never wants to stop.

_To be continued……_


	17. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Our Corner of the World:  
> “May I kiss you now?” Arthur asks, courtly as you please. Merlin flutters his eyelashes, ridiculously coy.   
> “You may,” he says, and then Arthur is tugging Merlin forward, crashing their lips together.   
> They kiss.  
> Merlin never, never wants to stop.

That weekend, they treat themselves to a picnic.

It’s one of London’s sunnier days, the customary cutting January winds suspiciously absent. Merlin is inordinately cheerful, humming along to some goofy children’s tune as he swings their lunch higher and higher, daring Mordred to catch.

Merlin laughs when he catches Arthur’s eye. Arthur can see his laughter lines, the curve of his cheekbones as his mouth spreads into a shite-eating grin. _Yes_ , Arthur thinks. _This is what I’ve been missing._ All those times Merlin had smiled, mysterious and half-lit- it had been enticing, but now, seeing Merlin so happy, carefree, it’s almost like Arthur is seeing an entire new side of him.

He loves it.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” Merlin says, quirking an eyebrow. And it really is; Arthur would have had better luck believing that it was March. A subtle difference, a slighter warmth to the air, something in the quality of the sunlight, but still somehow undeniably _there_.

Arthur’s eyes narrow. Should it be possible for someone to influence the weather? It’s a mind-boggling thought. But still, he’d seen what Merlin’s magic could do……

“Don’t tell me you had something to do with this,” he says, shaking his head exasperatedly. Merlin turns to look at him, face the very picture of innocence.

“ _Moi?_ You really think that’s possible?”

“Now I know it was definitely you- nobody ever looks that suspiciously innocent without reason.”

Merlin laughs. “Yes; now I’ve been caught out. But really, Arthur, it was just this tiny bit of tinkering……”

Mordred has joined in, now, blue eyes wide and utterly guileless. Arthur sighs, exasperatedly fond. These men. Or, rather, this man and this boy. They could have been father and son, though, those similar dark curls, those expressive eyes……

“Just tell me there won’t be any long-reaching consequences.”

“Nope.” Merlin pops the ‘p’, letting the picnic basket swing lax for a moment before tossing it high into the air. “Maybe a bit of a cold wave a few weeks later, and maybe my being threatened by Gaius’ eyebrow of Doom.” Arthur had heard about Gaius’ secret stunt as the former High Warlock a few days ago. It speaks volumes towards Gaius’ intimidation skills that Arthur hadn’t even been surprised.

Arthur snorts. “That’s fine by me, then.”

Merlin lets out a little yelp as Mordred’s eyes flash gold, and the offending picnic basket zooms right over towards the little boy’s pudgy hands. “Oi!”

And then Arthur can’t help but burst into laughter himself. “Teaches you not to annoy my son,” he says. “It seems I’ve taught him well.”

The surprised, fond look Merlin shoots him at his acceptance is the best reward he ever could have hoped for.

*.*.*.*

They spread their blanket on a low, grassy incline near the edge of the park, and Merlin casts a charm to make them utterly unnoticeable to passers-by.

“It’ll disguise us as something else,” Merlin explains, hands threading excitedly through the air. Merlin talking about magic is pretty much the equivalent of Merlin talking about baking: loud, fast, excited, with lots and lots of flailing and hand-gestures. It’s adorable. (Though Arthur will deny that he ever said so on his life.) “They’ll be seeing us, but it won’t register, and they’ll just think they saw something else. That way Mordred can be more comfortable with his magic, yeah?”

“And what may that image be?” Arthur asks, curious. Merlin scrunches his face up, fingers feeling about as if chasing unseen threads through the air.

“Wait a bit. That’s actually sort of random. Eh- wait.” Merlin’s nose has wrinkled in that pseudo-disgusted way he has, and his eyes have gone as wide as saucers. “That’s actually rather disturbing.”

“It is?” Arthur asks, a little apprehensive. Merlin shakes his head. “No. Well. You shan’t have to worry, since it isn’t anything illegal. But, well……”

Arthur simply watches in fond bemusement as Merlin spreads out their lunch with Mordred’s help, muttering about old men and goats and summer frocks.

*.*.*.*

It’s a veritable feast.

Merlin has made sandwiches, lots and lots of them, and Arthur has managed to wheedle Elena into contributing some of her famous homemade shepherd’s pies. There are tarts of every variety, sausages, bread-rolls, and every other confectionery goodness one could imagine; and the food is barely unwrapped before Arthur eagerly digs in.

“That’s cheating,” Merlin says, nudging at his foot. Arthur’s sandwich zooms out of his hand before he can blink an eye; he retaliates by tickling Merlin’s foot with his toes. There’s one skill he’ll never, never let his mates get wind of. The teasing will be excruciating.

Merlin’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second when he realizes what he’s done, but when Arthur starts an impromptu tickle-war (which ultimately ends up in a tie, and, if Arthur may say so, Mordred is _biased,_ ) he smiles and melts against Arthur’s side like a particularly sated cat.

Elena’s pie turns out not to be suitable for picnicking but still delicious, and Arthur tries his express best not to whimper when Merlin licks the residue off his fingers. “There are children here, Merlin,” Arthur mutters under his breath; and Merlin’s face goes beetroot red before he retaliates that _he hadn’t even meant it, you prat, can’t help if your mind lives in the gutter_.

Mordred conjures several butterflies; they seem to be made entirely of leaves, some of which have giant holes in them, but it’s something. Merlin looks on, proud and fond like a parent at their child’s school recital, and Arthur shakes his head as a leaf-butterfly decides to make his hair its nest.

It’s as idyllic as Arthur could ever hope anything to be. And, as he sees Merlin and Mordred stretched out beside him, watching the passerby go about their weekend strolls, butterflies made of magic flitting all about them, he thinks:

This is it. This is our corner of the world. Built together, brick by excruciating brick.

He hopes it will last for a long, long while.

He thinks it very well might.

*.*.*.*

Even in the midst of his newly-found domestic bliss, the problem of his father continues to haunt Arthur. Because, well━

He still hasn’t spoken to Uther.

He knows now that is father has committed innumerable crimes, that it’s only just that he be held accountable for them. But it’s one thing to blatantly defy his father, and another thing to call the police down on him- Arthur is torn in indecision, and he hates every single second of it. Merlin reassures him that he’s taken measures to make sure that his father won’t be able to hurt anyone else any more, but Arthur knows his father.

He won’t give up that easily. He was the one to teach a young Arthur what it meant to really _try_ , after all. And Arthur is bloody well one of the most tenacious people that he knows.

It’s all resolved unexpectedly, one day, when Arthur receives the text.

The magic Merlin worked for their picnic has been wearing off, but it’s still only afternoon, and the breeze that blows through Arthur’s flat is warm. Arthur stares at his text alert, feeling his body go numb from a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, winding his arms around Arthur’s torso. He’s a warm, reassuring line of heat against his back, and Arthur wants to break down against him, let Merlin coddle him like a little boy and tell him everything is going to be fine.

But that wouldn’t be true.

_Maybe it’s for the better_ , a little voice speaks in a corner of his mind; Arthur shoots it down before it can amplify the guilt any further. Arthur simply stands for a while, too dazed to really feel anything.

A strange, heavy sense of relief, maybe, that everything is over. Well and truly over. And a grief, for the man he knows his father might have been.

“It’s father,” Arthur says, through parched lips. “I’ve received news of his suicide.”

_To be continued……_


	18. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> And, perhaps, a new beginning.
> 
> Previously on Our Corner of the World:  
>  A strange, heavy sense of relief, maybe, that everything is over. Well and truly over. And a grief, for the man he knows his father might have been.  
>  “It’s father,” Arthur says, through parched lips. “I’ve received news of his suicide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe it's already the last chapter! I cannot. Really.  
> Heads-up for an extra-long A/N tacked onto the end. It might make your eyes ache. :O

Uther Pendragon, it seems, had been a man with an abundance of business acquaintances and a shortage of personal ones. No-one steps forward to prepare his funeral, and the brunt of it falls onto Arthur.

Arthur, conflict writ clear across his face, ends up settling for a standard company affair, with most of Pendragon Corps’ senior board members set to attend, funded by the company, to be carried out on company grounds.

“I won’t begrudge you your farewell to your father, Arthur,” Merlin says, brushing his fingers against Arthur’s. Arthur, as is the case all too often these days, is settled against Merlin’s couch, a half-drunk glass of whisky in his hand. Arthur’s eyes are half-lidded and cast in shadow as he replies:

“I know. But somehow, it just seems- _wrong_.”

Merlin thinks of the kidnapped children’s faces, of the terrified, defiant set of Mordred’s shoulders. He squeezes Arthur’s fingers in his own, and leaves him to his grief.

Some things are better thought over alone.

But soon enough, it becomes clear that Arthur is the only apparent heir to the conglomerate kingdom that is Pendragon, and his days are eaten up by board meetings and task-forces and payment cuts. Merlin makes sure to always be waiting for him at the end of yet another long day, cheerful smile and baked goods in hand. If Merlin’s smile is a little sad, Arthur doesn’t comment on it. They’re still on the road towards healing, after all.

Still, somehow, Arthur manages to empty his schedule enough to visit his father’s corpse at the hospital, where it’s awaiting burial.

Arthur picks a day and time when Mordred would be well-occupied in his daycare. Merlin agrees. For all that Uther had been the boy’s grandfather, he had lost all rights to such when he had deemed it fit to kidnap one if his own flesh and blood. Mordred still sometimes wakes with a cry on his lips, eyes subconsciously flashing gold; the memories of that fateful night are still to raw within him.

Instead, Merlin goes with him. Because while he could never mourn the tyrant the man had become, he can mourn a lover’s father, the ideal of a man that had never been.

Yes, he could do that much. For Arthur.

*.*.*.*

It’s raining on the day Arthur’s car pulls up outside of the sleek, white façade of the hospital building. Foggy-grey, fitting weather for such an occasion. An unsmiling receptionist with salt-and-pepper hair scraped back into a neat bun leads them to the room where Uther is being kept, and leaves them to their solitude.

Uther looks as if he could have died yesterday. Merlin is sure there is bound to be dozens of explanations with a bunch of chemicals and scientific formulas thrown in; but instead, his eyes are drawn to the frailty of the man’s body, the way he seems smaller, almost helpless, laid upon a surgical table with hands gathered over his stomach.

Seeing this, it’s almost difficult to believe that this was the man who had thought to single-handedly revive the witch-hunts of old; the man who had thought it his life’s work to eradicate magic from this world. His face is slack, his mouth slightly parted.

Like this, Merlin thinks, he may even feel━ pity, for this man. Sadness, perhaps.

Arthur kneels by his bedside, hands clasped as if in prayer, or farewell. It seems like barely a moment has passed before Arthur is striding back towards him, gesturing for him to leave the room.

“You sure you don’t need more time with him?” Merlin asks. Arthur shakes his head, sending a few stray droplets of rain spraying across Merlin’s shirt.

“No,” Arthur says. “It’s time to carry on.”

*.*.*.*

They opt to walk back home.

It’s strange, almost eerie, to walk in the soft rain, their feet barely leaving a sound in the misty fog. But in a way it’s calming, too.

“I can always come back to get my car later,” Arthur says, uncharacteristically quiet. “And it feels wrong, somehow. Just hopping onto a car, driving back home in the traffic.”

Somehow, Merlin doesn’t feel that he’s quite wrong.

Halfway home, Arthur turns to face Merlin. “Everything will change, now.”

Merlin knows that Arthur won’t hurt him. Not after everything they’ve gone through together. But he can’t help his knee-jerk response, which is to flinch back. “Change?”

Guilt flits across Arthur’s face, fleeting but profound. Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s _It’s alright. I’m sorry_.

Arthur nods. “Yes. After I inherited the company, I’d found that my father- he’d been embezzling company funds. So many trails of money, from so many different sources, all directed towards……”

_Eradicating magic_. Merlin remembers Uther’s so-called serum, the sickly-dark color of it, the way it had felt so inherently _wrong_.

“-that. So, I’ve decided. No more. How many magical children without homes, Merlin?”

Merlin pauses, dumbstruck. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

Arthur smiles, the quirk of it a little more humorous now. All around them, the pitter-patter of rain on the boardwalk fills the air, the smell of wet dirt and growing things and the tang of city smoke sharp in Merlin’s lungs. “Unlike _someone_ , who is all-powerful, I can’t read minds, you know. You actually have to tell me.”

Merlin chokes out a laugh. “I’m not all-powerful.”

“Damn close, you are. Remember- I saw you that night.”

“Prat.” Merlin can’t help but shove a little against Arthur. “But, really- are you planning to use those funds to- to find them homes? New families?”

“Always wanted to try my hand at embezzling, you know.” Arthur’s answering look is equal measures embarrassed and apprehensive. “What do you think?”

“Arthur, that’s-“ I will not break down, Merlin tells himself. I don’t do crying in public. I am the High Warlock of London. I don’t cry. “That’s- _huge._ ”

“But I could pull it off, I think. If I have you.” Arthur pauses, uncharacteristically nervous. “Do I?”

And then Merlin can’t help but throw his arms around Arthur’s broad shoulders, nuzzle against that mop of golden hair, as he whispers, “Of course you do.” Then, a little later, once they’ve separated and managed to catch their breath: “This- this warrants a celebration.”

“The _Corner?_ ”

“ _Corner_ it is.”

Together, wet and laughing and a little giddy with happiness, they make their way down the rest of the road.

Towards their very own corner of the world.

**-The End-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story ends.  
> First of all- many, many thanks to all who have stuck on to the end, read, kudosed, commented, reviewed! I'd nearly abandoned this story in the making so, so many times, and reading about your thoughts were the fuel that kept me going. So really, this story is as much of your making as it is of mine. <3<3<3  
> It's probably silly, seeing this wasn't an epic by any stretch of the imagination, but I actually felt a little melancholy typing out those two little words: The End. Almost as if I were lighter, somehow, or looking back from the end of a road. This was actually only the fourth multi-chapter I'd every written in my life (among the ones I finished, at least,) and it was such a meaningful experience for me. I feel as if I learnt so much about writing&ficcing through this little endeavor! (Surprisingly, I'd thought to finish this by December 31st 2020. :O Never underestimate writing things.) But, well, here we are. At the (near) end of January. Sincerely hope the new year's been treating you all better than the last one had.  
> So, again, thank you so much, readers, and may you have many happy days of reading ahead! :)  
> *  
> You can drop by to chat/yell at me/drop fic requests(though to tell me if you wish to remain anonymous!) at tumblr- @the-seaworthy-muffin.  
> Also, if by any chance there are any little snippets you'd like to see in this 'verse, drop them in the comments section- I make no promises, but you may be surprised. :>


End file.
